Doldrums of the Afterlife
by NxnsxgnorsDxmon
Summary: The real notion of atonement, seeking its adventurous pilgrims to enter inside the depths of the purgatory and clash with the lethal doldrum of their afterlives.
1. Dreamer

**Author's Note: Welcome to the sequel of Possible Second Chance as I've strongly promised to deliver it right away on the right day! The first chapter begins with the song Dreamer by Ozzy Osbourne. I hope you like and enjoy the prologue of this story! :))**

**In addition to if you haven't read Possible Second Chance or at least haven't finished the last chapters, subsequently go read them before hopping up directly there, in order to not earn a huge mass of spoilers and diminish abruptly your interest in the prequel and the sequel in the same time!**

_An unconscious figure. Leisurely motionless muscles. Meaty flesh faintly curling and waltzing to readjust its kipping position. The efficiently potent magnificence of the reverie's luxury to pour its entire cataract of creativity to conjugate the recently perched thoughts, solely equating to the spine-chilling imagination's masterpiece painted with the most vivid paint illustrating each discrete detail constructing unceasingly the dream's artwork._

_The celestially monumental ballroom commonly was being overcrowded by a huge mass of nobodies in the evening hours of the daily episode that became a victim of the nocturnal twilight. Galore of nobodies whose age range reckoned of their young childhood and their senior segment of their very life. Ocean of dancing pairings to the honey-mouthed, blood-curdlingly peaceful classic music droning rowdy the background as its classical outstanding composition was Moonlight Sonata. _

_The sheer glamorously refined, neat outfits of the guests sheened under the artificial light's vibrantly scintillating aureate halo, fabulously saturating every nuance, every discrete detail of the outfit's design. _

_Yet the blood-curdlingly peaceful classic music jingled angelic anthems to the nobodies even the dancing duos whether diabolically, hysterically tipsy or childlike sober, relishing each second of the masterpiece's majestic expression and genesis of peace the guests seek to hearken for the rest of the night after having a long day. The artistically refined intoxication of the smooth tunes teasingly tickled Jude and Timothy's ears._

_The Bostonian's petite-frame was exquisitely donned up in maroon off-shoulder satin gown as her delicately ghostly pale, unblemishedly silken collarbones and bosom starkly glimmered and breathed freshly its oxygen due to the sensual exposure with rose petals embroidering her perkily bouncing ankle length hem along with decorative extraordinary rose-petal belt binding her slim waist. Furthermore, her angelic halo ringlet of flossy old Hollywood gilt tresses joyously waltzed apt to tandem as they flawlessly curtained her ghostly pale, elderly youthful complexion. In addition to her evening costume, ruby jewelry such as droplet earrings and silver choker fastening her delicate expanse with rowdy, magnificent ruby pendant coupled the necklace eventually. Last but not least, classy, fashionable maroon pumps shoed her petite feet, whereas light make-up painted her facial attributes._

_The gentleman of her night, the former ambitious Monsignor's tall figure was clothed in obsidian black blazer and pair of slacks, generously coupled with lily-white shirt with a handful of undone buttons exposing disruptively, lively his thickly hairy, masculinely toned torso, while his classy, jet-black oxford formal shoes secured his feet and whispered its meekly rhythmical synchronization against the scarlet satin carpeted flooring. _

_A muscly, securely strong arm draped around slim waist and Timothy's other colossal, veiny hand grasping kindheartedly, gentlemanly her petite, milky whilst synchronizing the spiral steps and following fluently the Moonlight Sonata's rhythm. _

_"__I'm a big fan of Moonlight Sonata. Isn't it just beautiful night listening to that classy masterpiece?" At the moment, the older woman's wet, strawberry-coloured tongue surreptitiously crafted the sea of vowels and syllables, mischievously ticklish dancing on her tongue tip to sloppily drip from her bright red-painted mouth, squinting up her brutally honest pools of abysmally poetic, vibrant caramel brown at the British compatriot's chocolate brown. Caramel and chocolate brilliantly admixing authentically and staying loyal to their compatible bond, magnifying unceasingly headstrong their twains of optics. They were like soulmates. They were eventually soulmates. They are sharing a dance where the poeticism and the art of eye contact, dance and vibrantly sparkling, broad smiles tugged at the corner of their mouths. _

_The truth eventually was even if the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer's keen passion for jazz and vintage music cease to astound the majority of the nobodies and her acquaintances even a handful of her close friends, nevertheless, her stark, indisputably ethereal love for the classic music and its majestically calm, phenomenally horripilation's genesis of the compositions of the famous compositors in the previous centuries. Further, the British compatriot's desirable possession of a fiery enthusiasm for the compositors' works couldn't be interpreted in a thousand words-page essay with a couple of rationally logical, enthusiastic paragraphs emulating smoothly to the bare truth and the rational motives and explainations. _

_"__The night is as beautiful as this masterpiece," In the interval, the younger man's long, nimble fingers maneuvered the older woman to spin spirally, barely inching the maintained default proximity during their exchanged romantic dance until her back perched in the protectively promising, welcoming grapple of his arms, bracing her slim, swan waist as she protracted forward her velvet, alabaster arm for a split second and subsequently Timothy ushered her spine muscles to gear to straighten her posture and convey the genuine, meaningful cue to the blonde to bestow the sequel of their dance. "But not as beautiful as you, my rare bird!"_

_"__That's so sweet of ya, honey!" The haphazardness of straightening her posture and registering her petite, marbled hand's spidery fingers to chase the British aristocrat's appealingly sharp jaw to graze its tenaciously swan facial curve building his façade and quivering, amorous fingertips daubing creamily, elegantly the targeted focus."Yar actually the beauty there." As her caramel brown optics bore into her delicately heartwarming, bewitching touch erupting Timothy's electrifying goosebumps to spike his sensitive epidermis and the paradoxal paroxysm conveying its exceedingly fleet message of invincibly icy shivers crawling underneath his epidermis to bristle aggressively the cells and his veins, consequently beehive of tiny, distinctively rubicund, lucidly grotesque beads of blood translucently glittered._

_"__I'm indeed happy to spend the night with you there, my rare bird!" A blatantly honeyed cooed the former aspiring Monsignor, managing to grasp her elvish, marbled hand, docilely pawing the oblivious gory beads, bleakly fiendish staining the pads of his fingers until he pressed a gentlemanly affectionate peck on her brittle knuckles and thereafter marvelously luxurious, diabolically sanguine blood greased Timothy's naturally pale-pinkish, cherub lips after the mellow peck jointing his rare bird's fist and rich baptize of translucently crystal, inescapable fingerless gory glove-clad fist playfully, subtly tickled with its rivulet of begging freedom of bloody stream to trickle downward the heel of her hand. "It's our night, remember?"All of a sudden, the younger gentleman's manifestation of his coffee brown huge, rotund minerals to prong the Bostonian's alluring ogle, truly dedication to melt his flimsy heart._

_"__It's true!" The brightly ambiguous contrast of her abruptly widened hazelish-brown embers at the spine-chillingly scintillating vista of the love of her life's mouth was baptized in a thick, lavishly spectacular blood, gory rivulets smeared across his chin, irresistible stubble and chapped, pale-pinkish lips as the vehemently severe heart pulsations hammered into his vulnerable ears and drumming into his toned, muscly torso and her velvety, nonchalantly steamy Boston lilt puncturing her solemn agreement. Meantime, due to the ambiguous contrast, the former holy man manipulated his masculinely dark, kinky thick eyebrow to quizzically, sluggishly incline, objecting his common illustration of nonchalance sketching his young-looking, parchment complexion. The orthodox calmness erupted up the alarming, daredevil mask splendidly camouflaging Timothy's handsome facial features, hitching his breathing due to his tremendous, unexplainable oblivion to the current, unavoidably arcane events and most of all, sensing the bountifully tender caress of gory waterfall trickling sluggishly down his chin, bearing a semblance of vast bloodthirsty nemesis and vividly vampiric portrayal of his recent physique. "Oh my God!" Nonplus, huskily rusty gasp clicked the roof of Judy's mouth until her honey brown big, roundish gemstones landed on her bloody fingertips and digits, surveying in a scrutiny studiously, solemnly, whereas her front ivory, still firm teeth rammed onto her bottom plumpish lip to nibble the raw spot slowly but surely. "O-Oh my God!" _

_"__Is everything okay," Instead of dedicating their celestially golden time to follow the music's rhythm freely like the other dancing pairings, soar, enormous lump contracted Timothy's Adam apple, escorting creamily Judy's panicked gaze transfixed at her delicate, palish fingertips which were once pristinely bare, smooth as velvet, alabaster as angelic light until the hideously acute, inexorable gore baptize of each touch grazing anybody's naked flesh or attires foreshadowed the sequence of the sinister aftermaths."Rara avis?"_

_A long minute of awkwardly misty, murderous arcane doldrum settled thinly, fragilely in the couple's meager, lukewarm scale of space they adequately maintained, gauged a handful of inches solely._

_"__Waaaaahhh! Where's the medical help?" Faking her uneven breathy pants whilst retiring from the British compatriot for a split second to examine in a scrutiny once again her utmost focus of her attention, whereas an uncontrollably untouchable, high-pitchedly desperate bewail scratched her throat, kneeling despondently past the larger frame before her. _

\- _End of Dream _-

\- _Back to Reality_ -

When the former aspiring Monsignor's shut eyelids pinched widely opened, casted on the scintillatingly sunny daylight, profusely filtering the cell with its welcoming, promisingly saturating thin, translucent veil of sun settling into the sufficiently expansive site which was extravagantly furnished. The sun's profuse filtering saturation indisputably puffed sore Timothy's groggy optics, muffling a clumsily fleet, light-headed groan elaborating his chapped, naturally baby-pinkish oral slit. Once muffling the morning yawn with a mammoth, virginally creamy hand, throughout he straightened his posture and sat on the edge of his single bed, in order to examine in a scrutiny studiously, warily each surrounding escorting him.

Two single beds mated along with two oak wood nightstands accompanying cozily the comfortable furniture. In addition to Timothy's oak wood nightstand's decoration prominently engulfed flabbergastingly the British compatriot whose opulence of questions whirled and twirled in his vortex of thoughts about the recent site which was rather the purgatory. The ward's cemented, poorly maintained with a couple of abysmal, bellicose cracks walls genuinely questioned the recent purgatory's visitor who could interpret why his site was sincerely, despondently dilapidating, objecting any inkling of deserved luxury to pamper the inmates of the monumental façade which was rather a godforsaken prison.

Back as a mortal, the former aspiring Monsignor's beehive of ferociously unspeakable, unbelievable mistakes still haunted him even in his afterlife realm. Not only for the fleet imprisonment of the former sister of the church against her will and stripping her off of her clerical possessions and title paired with wearing the foul, devilishly somber mantle of Demogorgon to harm plenty of innocents, moreover his immense responsibility for the demises of two harmless souls, despite their sheer imperfections and stark mistakes. Shelley and Jude. The greatly swollen, sore lump seething fiercely his bare Adam's apple urged him to bubble up from his throat politely at the very thought of his bare hands depriving two innocents to resume their lives either for better or worse even crudely ominous grappling the motionless, stiff, rawboned pallid muscles of the former licentious jazz nightclub singer and even slamming his shaft inside her motionless slit to mischievously, sinfully indulge and fulfill his carnal, impulsive needs.

The explicitly morbid, unspeakable vivid images of the formerly possessed fake doctor's final moments scintillatingly eerie clouded his vision when the angel guided him to the chapel's room after earning his empty promise and the last thing what he saw in the ebony, invincible darkness was his nemesis and black. Everything painting black. No glossiness or anything one of a kind discreet detail to glimmer luminously soothing the real epitome of darkness, godforsaken loneliness and unholy nemesis, overtaking the breathing mortality of the former holy priest.

On one hand, the vile essence that has once found its new home inside his vulnerable body commanded exceedingly heinous restlessly its own victim of Demogorgon's lullaby essentially unmasked Timothy's stark anatomy of pure benevolence and virginal innocence to be framed in things he could never be the core of its unsacred, tattered deed. On other hand, Demogorgon's former victim of spiritual possession candidly could admit his own mistakes for Shelley's suffocation and his stubborn, unhallowed covet for power to ascend in the higher tiers of the diocese.

Dwelling back to the absolute reality of his last hope to the divine path to atonement place, the amusing, hair-rising glacial climate pebbled his tiny, naturally plum masculine nipples topping his hairy, toned chest paired with the embroidered hardness mantling his shaft and the enchantingly thrilling goosebumps entwining his very epidermis. There was absolutely no other appropriate, comfy garment to cover his starkly natural nudity, imbibed by his narrowed cocoa brown embers, coldly ablaze with torn embarrassment and cherry hue darkening his palish face.

When the sheet of paper along the fountain pen coupled with a peculiarly remarkable eraser engulfed his utter focus to separate his celestially precious time to peruse the special note, fixating his stare into the glimmering ink past his orbs.

**Welcome there sinner!**

**Welcome to your very journey in the abandoned prison that's under the control of the High Countess! Just follow the rules as diligently as possible if you want to evade the ginormous trouble! Don't you?**

**The following inmates are deprived from their vocal stings:**

**Timothy Howard**

**Frank McCann**

**Robin-Mary McKenna**

**Olivia Benson**

**Elias Barnes**

**The High Countess obligates the muted inmates taking notes, in order to express any emotion or to share anything with their pals. Don't ever forget when a rule is violated, the owner of the prison's office is always open to be warmly welcomed to discuss the issues and opt to find a rational, efficient solution as soon as possible!**

**Anyway good luck with your journey!**

**From the High Countess, the manager of the Paradise Prison**

The refined manuscript, exquisitely drabbling and etching its prominence in each letter, each word, each sentence and each paragraph of the brief sheet of paper no longer aroused Timothy's cutthroat aroused interest to peruse the miniature document and registering his pristinely long, meaty fingers to grip the fountain pen to erase everything on the blank lastly. Anyway it was gruesomely familiar the manuscript and unamusingly etching the prisoner's solely free hand to perch on top of his head and dragging his small, neatly trimmed fingernails to scrap gingerly, thoughtfully his scalp. In first place, his rare bird froze momentarily his mind at the very thought of the deleted manuscript of the initial note text, bittersweetly contaminating the formerly possessed fake doctor's hurricane of thoughts.

As soon as he examined cautiously, discreetly the ward's landscape, the other individual bed was neatly sorted and in the interval, the nefariously squeaky old, rusty iron door swung timidly opened at the prospect of the former security guard dolled up in a smoky blue denim vest, paired with embroidered canescent tank top, spotlighting remarkably his bulky, toned torso along with denim stained-greased dark denim jeans covering his lower body and canescent shabby slippers shoeing his feet.

What it struck the older gentleman whilst holding his individual pen and note and the prisoner outfit's collection of attires for his inmate warily were carried to the miserable, bleak site was that his former boss were trading mutually their own cell for the rest of their stay until they accomplished utterly their purgatory quests.

Jotting down surreptitiously on his own paper what was certainly thinking promptly the former man of the cloth, the sheer, childlike embarrassment pulsated into his tall figure and coursing icily, savagely through his veins, scorching his blush that authentically utmost incised his well-sculptured, chubby cheeks, opting to evade a possible, everlastingly straightforward eye contact with his foe or at least dislike that's going to populate the other part of his current, new home.

"Frank, how on the world we're sharing a ward together? I'm naked like a newborn baby and freezing to death!"

The note's poured text into the younger man's ponder wasn't left unseen by the former police officer, presentably gracious serving his foe's uniform and his dexterously meaty, secure fingers worked on jotting down his own thoughts, poured in a single sentence and etching a prim sympathetically, vague smile blooming upon his oral slit after fixating his ocean blue jewels to drink greedily, inquisitively his mate's astoundingly majestic thin manuscript.

"Don't worry, Tim! I just got for ya our typical uniform that every prisoner like us wears. And that's the final decision of the High Countess, herself."

Averting his cinnamon brown huge, rotund gemstones flicked up rapidly at the conveniently cozy, ordinary attires and getting dressed up in them within a handful of minutes, whilst Frank drabbled pensively detailed the instructions which he was austerely, solemnly vowed to pursue without any shadow of doubt.

In a long minute of dull, arcanely misty hush swaddling chilly the male duo except the lull of pen's manipulated etch whispering against the flimsy grayish blank and hitched breathing due to the mild discomfort of the younger gentleman's obligatory to trade altruistically the ward with somebody whom he's frankly disliking and vice versa, thus Timothy joined Frank and perused dearly, warily every petty, peculiarly thought-provoking detail.

"This place is such a hell of the earth, Timothy! The prisoners are regularly fighting in the common room even in the halls and the security guards are unable to stop them unless they're in the High Countess's office to handcuff them even torture them with embarrassing stuff like anal penetration and having a kink from the inhumane torture's blood as an aftermath of the director of this property's strictness.

Everybody fears Ms. Judy Martin! There are plenty of scurrilous gossips behind her back how she's screwing beaus to pleasure herself and enjoys every second and every ounce of the performed torture on the prisoners.

We're also obligated to work like slaves like cooking, baking, sorting the fucked up books in the library even doing the laundry for the High Countess. She's eerily selfish and sadistic even though I've had once clash with her and trust me, it was such an ordeal! An unimaginable ordeal! I better suggest you to not hop up on her way of hedonism unless if you don't want any anal penetration or to lose your half blood, submerging hypodermically your flesh.

Since the first day I'm there I'm seriously endangered by her sassiness and strictness. I can't even put a finger on the hardships and the tasks she gives every patient especially the most problematic like Elias and Robin. We're living like hobos with dilapidating cells and meager furniture. Sufficiently to grant us our bedtime comfort or cat naps at least if we're under the weather or whoever knows unlike her. She lives like a Queen with the luxurious furnitures and shit surrounding her office and en-suite bedroom and bathroom along with kitchen, besides having scrumptiously insatiable meals twice daily at least.

I'm not despising her, however, I don't think she deserves to live in such luxury and it's just discriminating us."

Once the British compatriot read the detailed instructions and adventurously crude experience of Frank through his afterlife journey as a prisoner in a forsaken, old jail, meanwhile, the male duo protracted their muscly, masculinely potent arms to brace one another's upper backs and drawing them into a tight, kindheartedly warm hug.

Even though Frank has almost never complained or had any fanciful pretentions towards the Bostonian, howsoever, the afterlife's realm strangely contrasted his expectancies as well. Somehow the ex-Monsignor candidly, cordially fathomed his buddy's misunderstood nature during his stay inside the low-spirited, bleak site where the wretched souls roamed restlessly, recklessly with no direct orientation and no dream destination.

At least the male pairing hoped their experience didn't equate to the others who've passed Jude's office and fled with abundance of relentlessly sinister, hair-rising bruises, wounds and scars, mapping its preys from head to toes either physically or mentally or the both in certain cases.

**Author's Final Note: I know the prologue of this book isn't that interesting, howsoever, at least I tried my best to portray everything as realistically perfect as possible even equating to the Possible Second Chance sequel's true concept and staying loyal to the trope! Moreover, what are your thoughts on the first chapter? I'd love to hear your thoughts, my dear readers! 3**


	2. Welcome Home

**Author's Note: The second chapter is based on the song Welcome Home (Sanitarium) by Metallica! I hope you like and enjoy the chapter along with the song! **

"Everybody be in the lobby!" The suddenness of the austerely raspy, unholy the middle-aged lady's reprimand rowdily announced via the speakers, pitching severely the background, whereas the duo molted dedicatedly, platonically tender in the tight, secure embrace, bracing their figures apt to tandem the motionless choir.

In a long minute of immobility suffocating Frank and Timothy's tense, fleshy muscles in the utmost kindhearted, platonic embrace jointing their arms securing their upper backs, the haphazardness of the withdrawal of their unhealthily pallid, nevertheless, still charming complexions obscured the inebriation of the breathless moments inched the thin elasticity of their appropriate proximity and the both gentlemen unclasping their arms from their shoulders as he managed to crook his masculinely strong, dexterous fingers around the fountain pen to jot down an important note.

"Damn, the High Countess is mastering her screams via those speakers in the lobby!"

Shortly after the both prisoners' childishly inquisitive, roundish gemstones perched on the blank's message, subsequently the British compatriot couldn't suppress a healthily guttural, sheepishly fiendish giggle and meekly muffling it with a satin hand fashioned into balled fist.

Then the younger man snatched his fountain pen to bestow the divinely utmost reply, somehow his mate's message and daubing smoothly, dedicatedly the tiny entity to etch dearly Timothy's position.

"I don't think she is mastering it! She is already a master to teach us thanks to those speakers that almost exploded my eardrums."

"Do not make me repeat the same all over again, dummies! Get yarselves in the lobby before calling it a day off!" The speaker's twitched feminine wail tingled alarming tones and tinging profuse layer of pinkness mischievously tickling Frank and Timothy's well-carved, chubby cheeks.

Thoughtlessly the platonic pairing fled their ward and descended docilely, obediently the massive concrete stairs leading to the lobby and participating in the horde of inmates whose faces looked eerily unfamiliar to the British compatriot. All of them were equipped meekly, mousily with lily-white sheets of papers and fountain pens to express themselves. The lobby's decoration articulated to meager as well.

The gruesomely lifeless, cracked silver walls were gradually, timelessly imbibed by the twains of dully, blanched gems. A monumentally tall, threadbare with pelt lavish lacquer bookshelf with a handful of expansive rows, consisting thick books. A handful of doorless doorframes linked the kitchen, the bathroom, the library and the game room.

The exquisitely painted with acrylic abstract, colourful brushes portrait of the High Countess that was in charge of the godforsaken prison sinisterly casted her hazy caramel brown cabochons to afflictively stark, cold heartedly glassy on the prisoners as if they had the potent feeling of being watched. They were eventually watched by her glamorously abstract, artistic grandiose portrait, battered to the cracked wall. How sarcastically spooky is sharing even a brief maintained eye contact with the life-like, majestic artwork and even maneuvering its glimpse to studiously examine in a scrutiny each discrete, thought-provoking detail that constructed the very landscape.

Bizarrely the High Countess's parchment, elderly youthful complexion blood-curdlingly twitched Timothy's stare to recognize the illustration's majesticness and inclining a dark, masculinely thick eyebrow and seizing his naturally nude pink, chapped lips into a pensive purse.

Olivia Benson was a woman in her late thirties with pleasantly chocolate skin tone, highlighting refined her dainty, outstanding facial attributes such as her delicate button nose, big rotund cinnamon brown bijous, coupled with her naturally plum, plumpish lips and naturally dark, femininely thick eyebrows. A halo ringlet of greasy, achromatic scarlet tresses curtained her chocolate profile as it was partly shaved on her left side. Last but not least, her prisoner outfit for the women were a pair of scruffy palish stone blue jeans guarding her long, leanly drop-dead gorgeous legs, coupled with an old, conveniently hoary tank top securing her attractively skinny torso, impaled with swan curves constructing her anatomy. Her height was approximately 5'6 and with slender body structure, formulating entirely her body frame.

Whereas her closest mate Robin-Mary McKenna was with a handful of years her seniors or rather in her early forties with fair skin tone, neck length short mop of lifelessly greasy auburn strands framing her olive-tanned façade, paired with her delicately dainty, feminine facial features like button nose, huge pools of abysmally poetic, life-like lapis lazuli and thin elegant eyebrows. Furthermore, perky dimples adorned generously her profile along with naturally nude pink, plumpishly chapped lips. Her height gauged her petite-frame in 5'3 solely, while her body structure was doubtlessly average. Last but not least, her platonic bonding with her mate Olivia and Elias fiery amplified through the elapsing days in the purgatory when they weren't having anything special to do except lingering the monotonous rhythm of their daily schedules, refilling their vaguely prim busyness.

They were eventually chaotically busy and it wasn't even deemed ironically, factly, Judy as director of the purgatory's godforsaken, dilapidating prison didn't have any sheer tolerance for anybody demonstrating blatantly hints of leisure slothness articulating each motion of their muscles. The High Countess could always refill Olivia, Frank, Elias and Robin's daily schedules with something productively refreshing to fulfill such as sorting the heinously chaotic piled the rich collection of books in the library by their ideal shelves, prominently conoting their genre, cooking scrumptiously unimaginable, blowminding meals from breakfasts to dinners though the prisoners solely relied on their bare creativity and unconditional deftness.

Elias was a middle-aged gentleman in his mid-forties with exquisitely, pleasantly olive-tanned skin tone contouring the pure, crystallinely luminous glimmer of his appallingly symmetric facial attributes such as his dark, kinkily thick stubble impaling his sharp jaw line, bonded with his expressively dark, thick eyebrows, cleanly-shaved head and huge, rotund jet-black bijous. His height's estimation was 6'4 and possessing averagely muscle anatomy building every muscle battered to his bone anatomy. Last but not least, unlike his other mates, Elias has limped for a handful of days due to the High Countess's harshly inhumane, cold-hearted retribution for not properly sorting the genres of the piled books in the library. No wonder the retribution not only mentally, but also physically mirrored its manipulated reflection of the absolute reality of the irony of the fate!

"That boss lady better have tolerance for people that she brought disabilities for days instead of yelling at the top of her lungs for the love of God." Crooking his handy, meaty fingers around the tiny entity to drabble his current humor even low-spirited frustration every time the speakers remarkably, humdrum almost exploded his eardrums, consequently crafting with effortless nimbleness to daub the pen's tip to ink the text on top of his oyster-white blank.

"Good morning to everybody! We're also a having a fresher that is part of our community and will be a remarkable part of the daily business awaiting him." At the moment, a heavy, jadedly rusty sigh coursed its oxygen through the Bostonian's tiny, flexible nostrils shortly before commencing her authoritative, hoarsely rusty caution pitching the dully resilient silence settling in the chilly, eerily dilapidating site. "Timothy Howard is going to visit my office, in order to have a short interview with him before experiencing the real pain as prisoner if he hasn't already beheld his own mates uniformed sufficiently adequate for their status. Or probably the realization of what it feels like serving somebody much higher in its tiers, regardless their flaws." The sardonic hoarseness, rustiness of the former holy woman's terrifyingly spine-chilling giggle didn't vanish even outwear its glossy vocal tissues, whereas Frank and Timothy exchanged mutually piercing, brutally honest gazes spearing each other's profiles promptly. "Take yar daily medicine and most of all follow the rules if ya don't want to get yarselves in humongous trouble for something that may cost your body part's immobility!"

"You will be fine, Tim!" The former policeman's masculinely strong, dexterous fingers danced around his pen to bedaub with its glittering tip the reassuringly emboldening caution to the former aspiring Monsignor, while snaking his solely free potent, muscly arm to secure his shoulders for a platonically innocent, unblemishedly warm embrace. Licking greedy her pair of cherub lips, Robin ushered her lapis lazuli cabochons to afflictively sore dart to the unfamiliar presence of the former aspiring Monsignor, whilst taking her time to examine in a scrutiny his yet dazzling physique though the unbearable, gruesome scruff mapping his muscles and bones and mirroring his despondency.

"What medicine we have to take?" In the interval, the British compatriot jotted down his inquiry, speaking volumes about his dim knowledge why the former licentious jazz nightclub singer obligated each inmate to take their medicine even if they're perfectly healthy and they didn't struggle either physically or mentally.

"You don't have to worry about this one. The High Countess have completely lost her mind over us struggling mentally and that's why she treats us like garbage." Robin-Mary's emphatic position was depicted purely, peculiarly on her individual paper while swapping amiable stares with the former cop and his inmate.

"Then did you dare to skip any of the prescribed medicine she obligates us to swallow twice daily?" Then Timothy erased his initial notes and replaced them with the recent demonstration of childlike inquisitiveness to discover more about the outrageously, furiously grim side of the purgatory.

"I did though I lied to her twice and I got away somehow to not mop the floor with my body, you know!" The brunette jotted down another brief, cheesily buoyant message even if the context was far cry from beatific and gracing with positive, profoundly vibrant vibes.

"Didn't she catch you in a lie once at least? Like for sugarcoating smoothly how you're like the good inmates that they're taking their regular medicaments and don't complain?"

"Not at all! I don't know about you, dude, but she can be outsmarted fairly if you're just being the two goody shoes at first or rather giving her that impression until her essence observing you ebbs off!" The perpetual exchange of notes between the brunette and the British compatriot hasn't petered out at all.

"As a mortal, there were times when I have outsmarted her. It wasn't a brilliant idea, not gonna lie!" A guiltlessly doe, diabolically vague, radiant smile etched upon the younger gentleman's naturally baby-pinkish, lusciously plump lips while having an enjoyable colloquy even though opulence of blanks with one of the prisoners.

"We all do mistakes, you know! I bet there are reasons behind not the best outsmarting motives towards her."

"It's true..." The sheer irony of the epilogue of the message the former devotional clergyman stung searing flabbergast peculiarly contouring her facial attributes, speaking volumes about the message's complex depth of the context, obscured in each etched letter and word even the triple, eye-catching dots overflowing its cataract of celestial haziness, arousing the ginormous interest of the middle-aged lady to discover the sequel of Timothy's thoughts poured in a non-verbal communication.

"So the others take your medicine and go to work in a New York minute!" The haphazardness of the inability of Timothy's brim lips to conjugate a thoughtful, grimacing purse and trading glimpses with the other yardbirds just shortly before accosting presentably, graciously the former licentious nightclub singer.

There was no actual time the other prisoners even to trade altruistically a handful of minutes to get to know the fresher, factly, Jude wasn't a keen fan of the delays and the infantile, ominous irresponsibility and bloodthirsty, villainous idleness smothering their muscles from functioning and twitching. She rather preferred her slaves to be either in the kitchen preparing creatively scrumptious meals or on the contrary sorting neatly the luxurious cluster of masterpieces of the Literature in the library.

In a long minute of retirement of Frank to repair the marbled bathroom's furniture like sink and bath, Elias manifested to retreat to the library unlike the women populating almost every inch of the kitchen and Timothy finding the genuine way to interact with the High Countess's office.

A nauseous lifeless rock rolled in a frigid, boyishly childish discomfort and throughout refined, elegantly enchasing the texture into rigid gauze allaying every boldly gearing allay of self-esteem, courage and calmness even if Timothy has incessantly donned up in an invisible armor of nonchalance to envelop his very frame and mind from the ferociously fatal, apocalyptic flames of impulse and unconditionally abhorring ire in unthinkable scenarios whose majority of the protagonists could bash the sinfully unbeatable demons of their ire and the nemesis was inevitably unavoidable nonetheless. When his profound imminent destination to the former pious sister of the church's office located upstairs with additional stairs linking the cusp of the wall-less corridor matching with the grandiose, nevertheless brightly contrasting with its grizzly, morose vista of the actual prison that interpreted the trap of the wretched souls that haven't even found peace with themselves yet. He felt like a new co-worker whose impending visit was situated in his recent manager's office for a brief interview like discussing opulence of remarkable discussions associated with work, qualities and so forth.

The casual stride of series of humdrum, meekly masculine footsteps pealing joyously, quietly and daubing the shabby, cadaverously dirty white slippers the cemented surface beneath his feet and toes, thus the suddenness of his hitched breathing and rusting its unvarying heaviness, uneven rhythm synced its new pairing of severe, unknowledgeable heart pulsations hammering into the British compatriot's vulnerable ears and flimsy, pallid chest.

"Come on, Timothy! You can do it!" Even if Timothy's inability to elaborate any vowels and syllables and pour them in his outspoken cataract of rationality and honesty, mild layer of perspiration beaded thickly, uncomfortably his forehead and an inner voice, indistinctive whispering its encouraging sweet nothing to embolden his fierce courage to outsmart his fears and prejudices. The old, rusty door in the middle of second floor troubled his obligatory destination before hopping up in the vicious circle of bare, balefully frigid mortification. "That's just your rare bird or rather the woman you genuinely loved in your former life as a mortal. Now you've the chance to redeem yourself and explain yourself that wasn't your fault at all. It was Demogorgon and his handy hands' vicious circle that was his fascinating work, crafted exquisitely to inevitably capture his vulnerable preys and pour the entire cataract of pangs of the conscience and mental weakness on them." Meantime, the former possessed doctor ducked timidly his head while clawing his amusingly feeble complexion and his coffee brown huge, round optics balefully barren, puffy swilled glassily the cementum ground thoughtlessly and opting to sort his mind, elaborating a husky, low grunt under his breath. "There's ain't any fault in your case! Jude isn't actually easily forgiving person, howsoever, she will grant you the deserved second chance. Just believe yourself!"

Less than a minute of overthinking and assimilating the imaginative scenarios of his forthcoming interaction with the older lady, thereafter he ventured inside the abysmal, thin hallway and ascending the stairway and stepping before the door that was presumably leading to his rara avis's site.

"_Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet__! Cut myself on angel hair and baby's breath__! Broken hymen of your Highness, I'm left back!_" Heart-Shaped Box by Nirvana recently hummed in the blonde's site as the vocalist's honey-mouthed, mellifluous voice accented the chant's lyrics abruptly, smoothly. What it strangely struck at first the former ambitious Monsignor was that he couldn't picture his own rare bird listening to or relaxing to classy rock music and most of all, chant the lyrics fluently or girlishly demure along with the vocalist. It was unbelievable how his vortex of thoughts whirled and twirled, in order to gear the assimilated song.

Fashioning into a balled fist, thus the younger gentleman rapped a couple of times on the door to keep the former nun's wits about her forthcoming visitor to populate her office and share a brief interview and the music's drone petered out in the background bizarrely particular, hair-rising.

"Come in!" Stern, authoritative reprimand ushering the younger man to venture inside the former pious woman of the cloth's office emboldened him. "Ah! It's good to see ya a fresher. Welcome in my office!"

Bobbing docilely presentable, graceful his head shortly after slamming gingerly the notoriously squeaky door behind him, subsequently the older woman ushered him to take a seat against her.

The former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer's site was richly, pearly furnished with a handful of tall, monumental bookshelves, coupled with her cherry wood bureau inching a couple of inches the scarlet glossy, gaudy walls glittering its brightness past the formerly possessed doctor and priest's gape when surveying in a studious, attentive scrutiny his surroundings for awhile. Golden ornate gracefully belted the walls. In addition to the decoration, a couple of doors linking the Bostonian's bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, library and balcony massed different segments of the site. Oddly a few guillotines maintained an adequate proximity with Timothy's seat gauged a few feet solely. Last but not least, a couple of large, exquisitely painted portraits of the High Countess battered the walls, besides there weren't any windows to shower bountifully the room in natural daylight light, pale enough to stream its photogenic waterfall elegantly.

"You wanted to see me!" After scribbling his initial note and demonstrating it to the older woman to dart her honey brown jewels whose outfit was obviously contrasting his disheveled, outrageous prison uniform.

"It's true, Timothy! Since yar pretty new to this place, that doesn't mean the rules that are labeled to be followed by others have to be broken by you." Strangely the High Countess's elaboration of her profoundly photogenic, radiant smirk categorically etching her Ravish Me Red painted cherub lips during her initial colloquy with the former devotional holy man. "This place is austere, raw or whatever ya may call it as a hellhole, but that's what the fate cooked for us! Don't you see it?" In the meantime, another docilely sheepish, solemn nod reaffirmed the recent visitor's position. A coyly gracious, benevolent smile adorned the younger gentleman's façade. "Excellent! I'm glad we're having somehow agreements on points that shouldn't be underestimated."

"Is that our home, Jude?"

"How dare ya to call me as if I'm yar friend, ya miserable-" A scorching pause savagely stung the fat of her wet, strawberry-coloured tongue and narrowing her caramel brown cabochons glaringly after perusing swiftly the another sheet of paper's enquiry overflowing the stormy tempest of lividness to boil her blood and adrenaline pulsating into her veins, almost on the verge to drip the inappropriate, harsh cuss for her excessive usage of strong language in front of the fresher. "I'm the High Countess! Show some respect for somebody that could be the American president or somebody higher in the hierarchy." The rapidly rabid vanish of the middle-aged lady's smirk and transmuting into an unholy, menacing pout, plucking boldly her cherub, bloody red lips. "Forget about calling me Jude or something that makes you looking like a complete retard!" The pungent, pleasant fragrance of feminine natural honey perfume and rich lotion permeated abruptly past the inmate's tiny nostrils, inhaling inwardly, blatantly and lowly humming in response to the authoritative reprimand of the High Countess. "Better keep your wits about ya if ya don't want trouble or something to suffocate yar very being even trembling up a single muscle when it's necessary!"

**Author's Note: I know the first chapters of this story won't be that intriguing or eye-catching at all, however, I try my best to write everything realistic and perfect as possible, regardless the flaws in my writing! Anyway I hope you like and enjoy this chapter! Don't forget to leave your feedbacks! They're always appreciated! :))**


	3. Speechless

**Author's Note: The third chapter is based on the song of Lady Gaga Speechless! I hope you like and enjoy not only the song, but also the chapter, itself! **

**Moreover, I'd like to apologize for not updating this story for a straight month, but I was running out of motivation to regularly update it, besides I wanted to overcome with something creative.**

**In addition to this book until the characters like Timothy, Robin-Mary, Frank, Olivia and Elias don't bring back their voices, subsequently their exchanged replies through the sheet of papers will be bolded in their dialogues as well as you can recognize whose lines belong to actually.**

\- ***** **-  
\- _Moments Later _-

Once the former aspiring Monsignor retired to the lobby after paying a visit to the High Countess's austerely sinister, vermilion office, subsequently the icily vast frostbite of overwhelmedness and stark despondency curled up in the pit of his stomach and twirling and whirling inside his abdomen's insides abruptly. The tempest of stormy despondency and ruthless restlessness dipped the rough brush to contour his charming facial features.

Even though the High Countess's prim, frostily cocksure humor imbuing her attitude towards Timothy in general, it broke his heart how her attitude was far cry from graciously polite. It felt like an awkward interaction between former friends or lovers that no longer corresponded to the platonic and eventual romance their close, pearly profound relationship they shared with each other. The genuine notion of the sentiment spoke volumes and leaked the bleakly somber, hysterically devilish colours streaming through the pronging chest with its spurting thick, wonderful gory cataract of indisputably tangy aroma. The bittersweetly soar flavour of the foreign bond they are being embroidered scorched Timothy's dry, berry-coloured tongue.

His rare bird. She was promoted to the highest rank in the entire godforsaken, bone-chilling façade and creating the rules even pearly austere coveting the rules to be followed strictly, regardless the circumstances. Regardless the childlikely futile, bland excuses. Regardless the relentless aggressive howl of the zephyr bountifully permeating its infectious aftermaths of the weather or accidents streamed its cataract of hazy, sable aftermaths of injured or befallen inmates.

Or rather she was his rare bird back in their mortal life.

Was the purgatory either a site for the sacred, yearned redemption or on the contrary a site of the sardonically bone-chilling irony? Probably the both variants are working ideally.

The meekly resilient masculine footsteps of the British compatriot as they ghostwrote the concrete ground and aiming to the monumentally lacquered door leading to the antique library, subsequently his mammoth, weathered hand perched docilely on the doorknob and twisting it until the door notoriously whined its din squeak, conveying its friendly reminder to Elias to keep his wits about the imminent library visitor.

As soon as the British compatriot ventured inside the godforsaken antique site and warmly ghosting with his presence Elias, consequently the both gentlemen formed their platonic pairing as Elias's youthfully refreshing, symmetric facial attributes hardly twisted due to the potently megawatt, frigid paralysis breaking his facial expression whilst his stare managed to spear the former priest. The dawdle motionlessness of his weathered, nimble fingers dancing around one of the thick, exquisitely antique books swathed with thick, generous layer of unholy dust due to its lacking care of its library owner. Opulence of empty bookshelves with four exceptions accompanied the duo. A huge mass of widely sprawled broadly spread with its pages books luxuriously fabulous, esthetically chaotic carpeted the floor.

"**Whoa! I didn't expect you so soon, Tim!**" In the interval, Elias managed to discard a fistful of neatly sorted pile of books to sort them back to their shelves as his strongly dexterous fingers crooked around the fountain pen to jot down his decry of the reek of sheer dumbfoundness painting its vividly true-to-life prospect which made his throat clench unevenly.

A welcomingly sympathetic, angelically weak smile adorned graciously the former man of the cloth's unhealthily pallid, young-looking complexion while manifesting his destination in brief, abysmally endless footsteps formatting his approach to the former drug boss's large frame and barely inching the subtly thin elasticity of their distance.

"**Keep in mind that I'm not that familiar with that prison!**"

"**It's okay, buddy! I thought you will need some help to be guided over there.**"

"**How would you like some help with that rich pile of books decrying the floor?**"

A coyly innocuous smirk vaguely glided to permeate across his baby-pinkish, enigmatically chapped lips at the amicably polite suggestion the British compatriot posed after the few non-verbal replies the duo exchanged with each other. Wryly gracious, innocuous giggle left their mouths. Fleetly nimble, surreptitious squints of their optics landed on the luxurious flock of desolated books until they pronged one another's façades at last. The common chilly climate pebbled their arms and legs abruptly followed by a thick lake of freshly electrifying goosebumps flowing on their epidermises.

Then Timothy registered to hunker down and seizing a couple of books after neatly slamming shut the books to perch on his muscly thigh whilst opting to collect the rest of the desolated flock of entities as his virginally colossal, white-knuckled hands' canvas engrained its high mountains of calluses inscribing sharply his fists.

The haphazardness of the older gentleman impressively participating to assist the other prisoner eased the task in the library as well. The guaranteed time to get done the task could endure a half an hour or even less by reckoning its glimpse of the pairing's versatility.

-**\- *** **-  
\- _A Couple of Hours Later or So _-

Once the day progressed rabidly perky as the afternoon's huge, rotund sun lingered its boat in the bizarrely hoary sky all alone in the company of the cloudless daily episode, the luxurious gilt cataract elegantly pierced the battered windows of the dilapidating, old jail's façade. The prisoners have already accomplished ultimately their tasks in the sites such as sorting the books by genre, regardless how thin or thick their size was, besides preparing scrumptiously hot, happily steamy meals in the kitchen, fixing the marbled furniture in the bathroom.

After another gather in the lobby of the façade's interior where the High Countess has drones her authoritative reprimand through the speaker towering the stone, lifelessly hoary and deep cracked embroidered wall to instruct the inmates to have their lunch by paying a visit to their wards as they were left on top of their night stands coupled with their eating, silver tools.

"**It's fucking unbelievable how slow it elapsed that time by fixing that marbled sink in the bathroom.**" On their mission to retreat back to their ward after the elaborated series of monotonous drums against the concrete while ascending the stairs, thus the former aspiring Monsignor registered to narrow his chocolate brown optics pronging the sheet of paper's stark ink inscribing fashionably each letter embroidered horizontally and vertically. Glossiness glazed his brown optics after spending a few hours in the library in the company of Elias and the galore of chaotically dusty, ominous sprawled books on the floor to be sorted by genre and inhaling series of times its stiff, heinously unbearable stench through his nose.

A heavy, jadedly glassy sigh bubbled up from the younger gentleman's lungs, sluggishly buffing a benevolently vibrant, scintillatingly vague smile to blossom upon his nude pink, deliciously plumpish lips whilst escorting soothingly his friend.

In a long minute of elaborating its humdrum footsteps ghostwriting the concrete endless carpet in the dull din of multi-voiced symphony of the other inmates' mewls pitching the very walls, consequently Frank and Timothy set foot inside their ward and seating on the edge of their beds, squinting up their depths scanning sloppily fleet the platters settled on top of the nightstands as they discarded their fountain pens and blanks aside their bodies meagerly inching their true proximity.

The platter with the lunch meal per a prisoner could be interpreted with a plate of tuna fish, freshly crispy flock of baked chips soused with mushroom sauce accompanying the main meal along with a glass of fresh, crystalline translucent liquid pooling its surface. Ironically, how the inmates could be graced with a scrumptiously delightful lunch unlike in the past days?

What it overwhelmingly baffled the male duo was the majestically mouth-watering dish and its bonus food chunks coupled with the tunny. It could be amidst their fewest or rather their initial best lunch times and fleetly retreated from the other prison sites to persistently fulfill their imminent engagements. There was always something to do inside the jail. The High Countess never ceased to fuel the daily schedules of the inmates even if they had less tasks than somebody else. She'd be greatly disappointed from each of them whose tasks haven't even progressed more than the half at least or they're completed up to their final deadline.

The dully rowdy sound of the pen's tip scribbling the former holy priest's true thoughts stitched graciously on the blank shortly before manipulating his virginally soft, long fingers to dance around the fork and butter knife, subsequently the other mate maneuvered his azure blue coals to impale relentlessly the text, thoughtlessly lolling his dry, strawberry-coloured tongue to lick his brim, chapped lips before equipping his hands for the mastication process. Yet the former police officer and the former devotional clergyman's sheerly argent oblivion to their deluxe reward skimmed the grave incredulity etching their charming facial attributes and highlighting their scruff ornamenting their jaws.

"**I didn't expect this luxurious lunch to be delivered to us at all. I think the High Countess has totally lost her mind as well.**"

As the older gentleman's masculinely potent, handy fingers crooked around the gray fork to prong a mouthful of the dish after scanning studiously in the corner of his eye, subsequently he almost choked on the baked chips and the tiny bite of the pungent tuna waltzing into his throat whilst gracefully mewling up a hoarsely guttural snigger. A guiltlessly complacent, sinfully boyish grin tugged at the corner of the former aspiring Monsignor's mouth, ushering a quizzically playful quirk of his dark eyebrow.

"**I can't really believe she could be that ironic with that delightful lunch meal, you know!**"

"**I'm not certain what she's seriously up to, however, she's gravely conveying me its dubious vibes. I've that sick feeling, Frank!**"

"**I have to agree with you even if I'm trying my best to keep my nose clean whenever I have a clash with her. She's gravely the grossest example with whom we shouldn't eventually mess up.**"

"**No shit, Tim! That boss lady isn't very fond of anybody opting to mess with her when you crave for the most.**"

"**Well, I actually messed her life up back in my mortal life.**"

"**Dude, that's the freaking past and back in your mortal lives. We're in a purgatory which means we still deserve that possible second chance."**

"**What if we the least deserved it but we're still stuck there?**"

All of a sudden, during lunch time after a handful of promisingly inviting, serenely nonchalant bites of the tunny and the baked crispy chips recklessly buffeting the younger gentleman's wet tongue contorted as Frank emitted a blatantly frustrated sigh, articulating fluently his dim exasperation at the inquiry, begging for an immediate response.

The inquiry, itself, could be interpreted in variety of pearly outstanding exemplars and extraordinarily rational versions, depending on each persona's perspective formatting their real logic to gear up. Even if the purgatory was the sanctum of galore of souls that were confined until their peace was utterly escorting to its golden apogee, at least the celestially superb power that reigned the paradise and that was worshipped as an one of a kind deity keeping its false hopes to its believers whose dazzling beliefs for better life and its dogma had bestowed every sinner with a purpose to serve inside the afterlife's supernaturally arcane hutch.

Frank couldn't resume to resentfully to judge his mate for certain sinfully licentious, insipidly blunt deeds emulating entirely to the immorality and the sheer disappointment of his loved, beloved inner circle members that still sided with him and constructed its deep relationship. Toxic trepidation could yet simmered its soar swamp in his lower abdomen whilst the eager flames of attained colloquy with the former police officer, factly, anyone that barely knew him personally or on the contrary sided with the former pious sister of the church could imperil his self-esteem for judging the book by its cover instantaneously instead of spreading widely its first pages to discover the symptoms of its divinely blissful passion to dunking in the deepest ocean of the outworld realm of its fiction and the passionately insatiable intoxication to peruse each word, each sentence and each paragraph glazing past the eyes.

Everybody had their own story or rather the prequel before descending into the foreshadowed sequence of their vices and grotesquely viridity mistakes. Everybody had their own symptoms of ignorance and inexperience in certain aspects. Everybody had their own pangs of the conscience. They could be hardly erased with an ease at all if they're freshly polished in the present to mount up to the high mountains of the brilliantly dark, inebriating oblivion or haziness obscuring their headstrong impact on their preys.

"**At least, God gave them another possible second chance to redeem themselves even if their mistakes were severely unspeakable! You have still hope to be the demon's Achilles Heel and to be the golden child of God.**"

"**You are actually right, Frank! I think everybody has a real reason to be stuck there in the middle of nowhere even if they're the hugest sinners.**"

"**I'm glad that you're seconding it and embracing with open arms your offered hope to not rot for eternity wherever the most vindictive souls end up even if the peace and the redemption are a pure fiasco for them.**"

"**Exactly! Shall we enjoy our richly delicious lunch to mark its prominent celebration for our gather?**"

The former pious holy man and the widower couldn't stifle their purred breathy, pretty healthy giggles blending its chromatically breathtaking ode spearing the very walls of their cell as their fingers shifted to dance around their partly emptied glasses of water and toasting one another as the sharp, subtle clink of the frail glasses leveled out its decibels for a split second until the both men didn't take a sip from the entities kindly.

\- _A Few Hours Later or So _-

As soon as the noon break jumpcut to the abrupt scenario of getting back to work and no longer populating the cells, the inmates lingered their very presences in different sites of the abandoned prison.

Unlike the other representatives of the same sex, Timothy spent his entire time in the kitchen after his brief lunch break by washing the dishes and eating tools of each inmate and his fingertips poising its lathered sponge to bedaub the sticky smear-clad layer of food plastering the surfaces of the plates and the forks and the butter knives. Even if the chore could be ridiculously viewed to be executed by a man, still it was a blameless vista, factly, it was everybody's responsibility after having their regular dishes. Notwithstanding the circumstances, the inexorably brilliant agleam reminiscence of flashbacks flashed promptly when the British compatriot spent his childhood and adolescence in his wealthy household from time to time to do petty, nevertheless, remarkable chores like vacuuming the floor, washing the dishes after each meal and so forth. It was peculiarly, funnily reassuring bedaubing its gummy filth that once lubricated inevitably their booths.

The abysmally razor-edge, gargantuan crack stitching its wall vertically that was a victim of the British compatriot's coffee brown huge, roundish minerals that darted its deftly brisk glimpse at the lifelessly grayish rampart. The dim daylight light filtered nonchalantly free the kitchen. The demonical loneliness conducted the formerly possessed clergyman. Once the kitchen sink's faucet no longer turned to allow its rich cataract of jet water to lowly hum and piercing Timothy's flexible eardrums, thereafter he retrieved an individual glass to fill it with sufficient quantity of water to hydrate his organs and shamelessly bedew bountifully his tongue and oral caverns.

The suddenness of the notoriously creaky whine of the door jingled alarming tones into the inmate's vulnerable ears at the prospect of the gradually opening door as the High Countess stepped inside the kitchen and accompanying him.

Boyishly coyness trustlessly painted his welcoming, handsome facial features and ruby hue darkened his ghostly pale, young-looking profile as his cinnamon brown minerals shifted to the petite frame whose physique's ethereal extravagantness and roaring heavily its invincible might shimmered past his eyesight. Little did he know what it may be their recent encounter and will it alter its megawatt tension they once radiated in Jude's office.

"Oh, I didn't expect ya so far to be there washing the dishes for the others, Tim!" A woefully sardonic, fiendishly seductive smirk tugged at the corner of her brightly red lip as it curled at her rhetorical utterance and slamming shut the door behind her, whereas her sheerly oyster-white-gloved hand channeled to cast a hex to temporarily spellbind the former aspiring Monsignor's voice to be restored. "That's a good cause in the name of yar inmates and yar actual responsibility, illuminating your very respect for that institution and whatever stumbles ya." Maintaining a couple of inches distance solely as their figures adequately inched, a heavy, dry sigh kindling the younger man's brittle lungs as he broadened his orbs when the bewitching hex of restoring his voice thanks to the High Countess's nimble magic aided him.

"Madam High Countess, it's always a ginormous pleasure to do something as a duty for the collective!"

"Excellent!"

"I would like to know why you're here eventually."

"Oh! I-I just wanted to check on ya, ya know!" At the moment, Timothy managed to bashfully shuffle his feet when the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer's strong-willedly mystic attempts to obscure certain questions that whirled and twirled in the British compatriot's hurricane of thoughts didn't fail to accommodate to the mildly awkward ambience circumscribing their reasonable, shy hitched breathings.

"That's truly kindhearted of your side, madam!"

"Well, I would like to apologize to ya for my arrogance earlier today when you were in my office! I truly understand that you are sheerly new to this jail," In the interim, the older woman registered to approach the former ambitious Monsignor and gingerly sympathetic pawing his broadly muscular, secure shoulder and boring her hazelish-brown gemstones into his, softening enchantingly their facial features as his heart skipped a beat at the delicately promising, inviting touch ghosting his shoulder blade.

"It's okay, madam High Countess!" Then instinctively oddly the younger gentleman yanked gently her hand as his naturally baby pinkish, sinfully cherub lips planted a platonically affectionate, formidable smooch to the blonde's frail fist. "It doesn't matter anyway. You have the entire right to be angry with me sometimes."

"I'm glad yar such a forgiving soul, Timothy!"

**Author's Final Note: I know how uninteresting are the first chapters of this story, however, I solemnly promise they will be more intriguing in the sequel, you know! Don't forget to leave a feedback if you've genuinely enjoyed the chapter. I'd like to hear your thoughts! :))**


	4. NUMB

**Author's Note: The fourth chapter is based on the song NUMB by XXXTENTACION! I hope you like and enjoy the fourth chapter and the song for additional ambience! **

\- ******* -  
\- _A Couple of Hours Later or So _-

Dozens of politely meek, unremitting raps battering the door didn't channelize its blood-curdlingly frigid twitch of Jude's satin muscle, credulous to the inevitably unpredictable noises piercing the very walls of the site.

A luxuriously exotic, hedonistically mouth-watering Martini cocktail motionlessly perched on top of the bureau accompanied by a magical violet orb as its bewitchingly pale manipulation of its reflection glazed her hazelish-brown optics, glittering up its vibrantly glossy, silken desired site to be supervised strictly. In addition to their meager bond, a wooden-frame Polaroid photograph of the High Countess posing with her most beloved, docilely diligent soldiers Leslie Lee and Raymond Moore affable memorable partly outnumbering the very background of the High Countess's luxurious office.

"Yes?" At the moment, the Bostonian managed to seat on her working bureau, emitting a blatantly stringent, invitingly raspy mewl ushering the uninvited guest behind the door to set foot inside her site. A straight line prominently adorned her parchment, elderly youthful façade and beautifully matching with her lion mane of vastly silken, glossy old Hollywood aureate locks plastering her forehead. The straight line surreptitiously blurred each pattern of heavenly euphoria and any kind of a vibrantly poetic emotion credulous accenting her facial attributes. "Come in!"

"High Countess, the inmates just finished fully their daily tasks!" The suddenness of the ominously nefarious door's whine droning the background as Leslie stepped inside the High Countess's office, dolling her radiantly cheesy, humble smirk up to permeate across her wine red-painted cherub lips parted in the formal address, whereas a gutturally subconscious frosty gasp emerged from Jude's mouth as she manipulated to incline perkily her dark, thin eyebrow. "Madam?"The incredulous idleness of the blonde dancing her spidery gloved, deft fingers around the glass of Martini and lifting it up as her lower vermillion lip spooned timidly the rim of the glass to gulp a handful of tiny, docilely hedonistic sips to hydrate her oral caverns and tongue, hardly oblivious to the formal address.

"Just a second, Leslie!" Gesticulating amicably gentle with a hand as her wedged bright red, plump lips mumbled the blatant whimper as plenty of vowels and syllables found themselves being relentlessly untenable victimized due to the mouth's asphyxiation. Then the blonde dumped aloof the glass settling motionlessly comfy on the desk and darting her honey brown optics to prong her recent visitor. One of her guards who have obdurately diligent served her very duties to not bestow her master even the wee inkling of lukewarmly fierce chagrins to impale her very bones and cells with shadows of her past to chase her down in the further future once she either no longer served the Bostonian or on the contrary the disappointments were just a bleakly smoggy cloud of the past overcastting her blizzard of thoughts. "It's so good to see ya in the nick of time!" At the moment, the older woman channelized to elaborate a couple of brief strides in its meek footsteps whispering against the floor until she peaked to her dream destination bluntly ruthless, whereas the former pious holy woman's lusciously vermillion lips sluggishly buffed an inescapably radiant, welcoming smile flexing her delicate jaw.

One of the most obdurately loyal, dedicated people inside the purgatory to the former pious holy woman was eventually Leslie Lee and Raymond Moore. Or rather, the woman donned up in its solemnly hedonistic, cordially heartwarming attires of the true blue and its ferocious blood of contentedness coursing through her very veins and building its heat of ecstasy rippling her epidermis followed by electrifying goosebumps.

The jail female guard was eventually in her late sixties and towering her manager with a handful of inches that gauged approximately three, throughout utterly reckoning her 5'8 and her mildly rotund body structure contouring her curves and very anatomy. Her crumbly tanned skin tone superbly matched with her dark, naturally thick-shaped eyebrows, her medium mop of fashionably velvet jet-black strands curtaining her outstandingly elder facial attributes and collimating her haircut to a sheerly medium bob. Bonding inexorably with her doubtlessly alluringly big, rotund pools of ocean blue inscribed her very eyelids' and individually functioning to chase down every eye candy that glimmered past her eyesight. Notwithstanding her larger frame, the former bartender's birth town was actually New Orleans, Louisiana.

In addition to the older woman's physique, an off-shoulder denim jumpsuit paired with a chiffon oyster-white long-sleeved shirt embroidered on her anatomy as the stubborn buttons were fully buttoned to her parchment expanse, obscuring beneath its thin veil of fabric her tender flesh. Pair of knee-length leather jet-black boots shoed her sufficiently grand, versatile feet paired with a denim rigid sleeveless vest guarding her chest and fingerless ebony gloves ornamenting her fists promisingly inviting, solemnly. The axe's rigidly wooden, sheerly unblemished handle leaked even when spidery meaty, nimble fingers timidly cradled the entity for cases in self-defense or the villainously bloodthirsty, eccentrically spooky demeanor of the inmates that freely demonstrated remorselessly as their fiery impulse rumbled up their bones and muscles.

"Oh yeah! After supervising those kiddos downstairs!" Registering to scuff inwardly timorous her scalp as her neatly trimmed, medium-sized sheerly clean fingernails contacted the feather-soft segment of her skull, whereas worrying her front ivory teeth to nibble infernally recurring her bottom cherub lip. Utterly oblivious to her creased facial expression, throughout an abstractly fleet domino of outstanding absurdity, childlikely unchangeable canvas etched her femininely unique facial attributes.

"Are ya having problems with them, Les?" A low mellifluously modest, childlike hum in approval emerged from the older lady's candidly vibrant, sunny smirk while managing to shake her head in solemn disagreement. "N-No?" Conjugating an uneven stutter as her bottom bright red lip twitched abruptly, the very thought of the despondent inmates downstairs amplified the heart pulses of the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer's ethereally timeless, sluggish hammers into her brittle ribcage. What those humbugs have plotted stealthily against the jail's rules and the High Countess's leadership? Was there something that the Louisianian was incredibly confining its discreetly bone-chilling information or anything related with the inmates?

The wee hint of the unceasingly shattered its opulent, hazy valley of unsolved mysteries that were donned up in the thickly marvelous, rigid robes of the mysticism to peter out their chances to be discovered unless the former licentious nightclub singer's austerely indisputable acuteness detecting the incessantly flickering light bulb of the apocalyptically sinful, hazardous secrets. Even though the former religious woman of the cloth wasn't a keen enthusiast to detect her most beloved people's skeletons in the closet and screeching hysterically guttural the stark truth, yet the purely indistinctive valley of voices sardonically chimed her to format a tad tolerance and not constantly question the prisoners at all.

The unremittingly mutable flavor of the cocktail bizarrely altered with its dim fermentation on Judy's tongue tip even if she has sipped of the glass in less than a minute ago. Something paradoxally icy rasped her pit of the stomach sharply remorseless. As usual, each glass of mixed liquor beverage could format its initial innocuous leisure to be savored and it wouldn't grace her with any indisputable rueful woes to stumble her way. Howsoever, it really depended of her current location and who actually equipped her with a harmless glass of Martini.

The haphazardness of an unpredictably licentious vibration seething the blonde's delicate, ghostly pale expanse chimed the uneven noise of bobbing lump and vast cloud of grogginess encumbering her very caramel brown depths momentarily even during her attempts to maintain an appropriate eye contact with her beloved guard. Then she almost choked on the bob of her feminine Adam's apple and gesticulating with her gloved, satinly elvish hand to timidly fiddle her expanse as her fingers gingerly, fiery embarrassing traced the very curve of her neck up to her chin, an indication to slow down the dully prompt panic at certain moments when the anomalies howled their ferocious winds.

"Oh!" An inward groan expelled from her tongue tip, pinching broadly opened her amber brown cabochons to regain consciousness and elaborate the frequent function of her heart pulses pumping her frail torso. "God!" Then the Bostonian gravely thoughtless darted her gaze to the alcoholically scrumptious beverage for a split second and subsequently subconsciously imbibing every ounce of her eye contact's maintenance with the Louisianian.

"Is everything okay, Judy?" The former barwoman dashed to examine in a scrutiny her favorite manager and bending down, while maneuvering her petite, creamy hand to claw amicably her dainty shoulder blade, gnawing on her upper lip ruthlessly with her front unblemished pearly-white teeth.

"Oh yes, Les! Ya don't have to be worried at all." Meantime, the former licentious nightclub singer manager a docilely amenable nod in solemn agreement formulating to affirm her condition didn't encounter any brass anomalies. "Everything is okay!" At the moment, Jude settled her gloved hand to paw gently her guard's and manifesting to circulate its frequently comforting motion on reflex, offering her a kindheartedly serene, radiant smile etching her vermillion mouth.

\- _Later that Day_ -

"_You don't know the half of the abuse__! __All my friends are heathens, take it slow__, __wait for them to ask you who you know__! __Please don't make any sudden moves!_" Heathens by Twenty One Pilots were currently playing on the jukebox as the vocalist's doubtlessly honey-mouthed, graciously melodious chanting accent tenaciously cardinal interpreted the song lyrics' genuine notion by rhyme.

Series of unquestionably unabating sways of hips and tissues to the song's rhythm and stealthily chanting under their breaths the lyrics as their cherub, healthily nude pink lips quivered, formulating their vivacious spirits freely waltzing in the game room where flock of scotch glasses of Goose Island bourbon statically overwhelmed up to the rim. The ravishingly plush fragrance of insatiably scrumptious liquor was the sole pleasant scent to outnumber aromatically the inescapably ominous reek of human sweat, flesh and mold villainously steeping up the thin air.

Even though it's been a handful of hours at least since the inmates have retired from their daily routine and attempting to dodge the diversity of methods that overwhelmed their physical and mental stamina, shortly after acknowledging their master was being found deeply drifted off asleep in her own office by one of her most true blue guards, consequently the inmates couldn't miss their chance to throw a miniature party in the game room. Ocean of tipsy, bourbon-stained belches and jovially childish snickers droned up and fantastically whisked with the song and the lumpy, fleet noises.

Notwithstanding the extravagantly furnished prisoners' wards, nevertheless, unlike the majority of the dilapidating, godforsaken prison's sites, the game room could be genuinely deemed as the fewest most decently atmospheric rooms bonded with the High Countess's office upstairs and their two of a kind architecture blended with their extraordinarily complacent interiors hardly ceased to disappoint its visitants.

A monumental jukebox battered to the lifelessly dull, lethally grizzly wall accompanying a cherry wood refectory table with a tattered black and white cashmere fleur de lis sofa meagerly maintaining a heinously adequate proximity. Further, a handful of deficiently lacquered stools circumvented the wide furniture and at times due to the severely entertaining, photogenically infective dances and motions of the inmates rippled certain furniture to quiver insecurely along with the diabolically high-pitched music's decibels almost exploding the very walls of the coherent site.

A vast cloud of claret red rigidly cashmere carpet cozily embellished beneath the refectory table, cashmere sofa and stools as dozens of subtle footsteps slowly but surely soiled after ghostwriting the floor precipitously.

Bizarrely within their arrival, the horde of inmates could fleetly use their vocal tissues to restlessly craft their poetically emotional utterances until the Bostonian didn't pay a visit to the site and interrupt their party. At least, they have limited time to distinct their own accents through their cataract of utterances even if they were the most futile.

"C'mon, lassies!" In the interim, the redhead traded a rhythmically platonic, amicable dance with Robin-Mary and manifesting to sway restlessly incessant their hips, oblivious to Elias's huskiness abrading prominently his emitted blatantly rowdy reminder to convey its truly inviting notion of his jovialness to contagiously engulf their attention into his small bubble of his own world, formatting his true allies, true dreams and vividly marvelous, mouth-watering ambitions and logically down-to-earth perspectives. "Oli and Robin!" Once the middle-aged gentleman's efficiently divine success carding the chaotically disoriented female pairing whose heavenly solemn dedication to practicing freshly their dancing moves and following modestly compliant the music's rhythm in no time, meanwhile, the Afro-American and the brunette engulfed their piercing stares into him as Olivia registered to fold her leanly satin arms across her chest. Wrathful incredulity whetted abruptly the parchment, refreshingly young-looking Olivia's complexion at her shorter name's toll rowdily overcrowding her vulnerable, petite ears that almost numbly muted Twenty One Pilots' composition unlike her dancing partner.

The brunette's femininely dainty, youthful facial attributes accommodated entirely its prim affinity, affable radiance's thin veil uniquely mantling overally nonetheless. Robin-Mary was far cry from unimpressed, nevertheless, she wouldn't mind to megawattly strong, ominously headstrong inflate her very bond with Elias and perpetually developing their platonic friendship.

"Elias!" The hoarseness of the Afro-American's ousted inebriated mewl as her bourbon-stained breath faintly fanned his flawlessly creamy facial skin didn't vanish at all, lingering her arms to be crossed across her chest, formulating her ultimate viciously mild ire boiling her blood and erupting the grandiose volcano of wrath pulsating into her frail skeleton once anybody dared to demandingly cocksure routing the brief version of her first name. "Don't call me like that!"

"I'm really sorry, dear! How would you like me to call you then?"

"Livvy is the better variant if you ask me personally." Then the middle-aged lady channelized her velvet, scabby arms to retreat, abiding immobile unlike Robin-Mary whose sheerly childlike impatience seethed her very muscles and the alcohol taking a grave toll on her and her recurring, energetic waltz to flee the very realm of idleness promptly. An inebriatedly cheesy, wide grin curved upon her naturally roseate, chapped lips, whilst clapping her hands in the thin air, struggling to conjugate a beatifically beaming, breathily girlish giggle tickling the beginning of her tongue. "Robin, how dare you hanging out to dry?" Then Elias couldn't stifle his boyishly coy, humble snicker whilst the younger woman registered lightly, kindheartedly to swat the brunette's shoulder, in order to append her in their company again.

"I didn't mean to,"

"Of course, you meant it!" A heavy, jaded sigh dislodged Robin-Mary's frail lungs, squinting up her azure blue depths at the tiny gap of an appropriate distance her buddies exchanged with one another and sensing the frigidly real sentiment of being a third wheel between a futilely puerile bicker accentuating their heated debate, worrying her lower chapped lip. The unfalteringly stiff-necked cleave of the brunette caught her off guard once the touch sent chills down her spine due to the feeble predictability highlighting instantaneously the chances of spoiling her entertainment she obtained.

"_You don't know the half of the abuse! Welcome to the room of people! Who have rooms of people that they loved one day docked away!_"

"The poor folks!" The suddenness of the former policeman shifting his attention to the trio on the dancing floor abruptly rode its dynamic roller coaster of anomaly and narrowing his ocean blue gemstones at the former devotional priest, dawdling its ethereally timeless, afflictively contagious huge grin embellishing his parchment complexion and crinkling his lower eyelids and sufficiently heavy wrinkles inlaying its very curves. The tipsiness not only has took a toll on its recent preys of the sinfully wanton and indubitably magnetic brown liquor to inhale quietly its promisingly welcoming and acute fragrance, but also ushering to tainting apocalyptically demonic their blood and cells, following its sharp-wittedly enigmatic construction of a mild migraine and dim haze clouding Timothy and Frank's eyesight. "It's freaking unbelievable they're fighting over a teeny-weeny name that triggers the other."

"Not everyone embraces entirely the fact that certain short names are so obnoxious! I really can't blame sometimes Livvy for hardly craving to be called Oli." The platonically male duo reclined undemanding on the couch and their fleshy, pallid fingers apt to brace their scotch glasses of bourbon.

"Nevertheless ya ain't getting offended for being called Tim or Timmy."

"That's incredibly true, Frank!" All of a sudden, the older gentleman ushered to swig greedily hungry the brown alcoholic beverage immediately, invincibly impressing the British compatriot at the deft hastiness of his inmate, fixating his smoky quartz huge, roundish gemstones glinting its profuse vibrantly profound ray of gold, ablaze by the kindhearted company of his frenemy. Then Frank slammed blatantly his emptied entity on top of the furniture and maneuvering to dart his wet, strawberry-coloured tongue to lick greedily mischievous his upper and lower pale-pinkish lips. "I just don't take way too seriously certain elements that may trigger the others due to their shorter names used informally." Thickness absorbed viciously vindictive the British compatriot's Adam apple instantly and barely even attempting to sort his mind during his pretty informal colloquy with the former policeman, whereas the soar lump conveyed its friendly reminder to be released sooner or later.

"It's true!" A sweet purr sailed clumsily out of the older man's mouth as his mammoth, masculinely veiny hand shifted from his other up to Timothy's thigh, subconsciously assimilating his undeniably fatal desires he may regret on the morning after and clashing with the symptoms of a hangover, whereas dropping his head to paw gingerly his broad, muscular shoulder. "To each his own!" In the meanwhile, his meaty, creamy fingers smoothly glided up to the former aspiring Monsignor's hip, whereas Timothy struggled sluggishly to gulp the soar lump in his throat as he followed the widower's frequently thought-provoking, cheesily tempting touch ghostwriting his hip's anatomy and seizing his lips in a pensive, arcane purse.

"W-What are you doing?" The sufficiently visible crotch's bulge magnified gradually due to the intoxicatingly enticing dozens of fingertips and digits of fingers scraping his tissue, manipulating his colossal, amusingly warm hand to claw wickedly his mate's silken, ghostly pale to format his categorical inkling to halt his seduction that could contaminate them with pangs of the conscience and drawing a further, unwanted audience even if it was a few more people crowding the site.

"_Just because we check the guns at the door__doesn't mean our brains will change from hand grenades__! __You're lovin' on the psychopath sitting next to you__! __You're lovin' on the murderer sitting next to you__!_"

"I know what I'm exactly doing, baby boy!" Their façades scarcely inched as soon as the widower leant down and pinkness playfully tinging aggressively their chubby, well-sculptured cheeks as his liquor-stained breath fanned feather-soft Timothy's tender facial skin, followed by hitch warily squeezing his regular breathing and his heart leaping monotonously unstoppable. The older man scarcely had any idea what he was actually doing even when the alcoholic beverage took a roughly inevitable toll on every amenable victim.


	5. Personal Jesus

**Author's Note: This chapter is crucially based on the song Personal Jesus by one of my favorite artists of all time Marilyn Manson! Please give it a try while reading the chapter or after reading it! I would like to hear your thoughts! Last but not least, I'd like to genuinely apologize for the slow updates, nevertheless, there are times when I'm running out of motivation and it's hideously exasprating. Please don't unfollow me or so forth just because I don't update every day like sometimes or often. Thank you! :))**

\- _The Next Morning_ -

The morning after bled into the inevitable celestial twilight of the daily episodes' cusp and becoming a hopeless victim of the summer breeze's pace. The dilapidatingly stale, flabbergastingly stout prison's grandiose façade witnessed its stone walls the early morning's obdurately shrill of the exaltingly honey-mouthed birdsongs eerily wreathing the exterior outdoors accompanying the dim celestially gilt sun boldly triturating its beamingly vibrant rays filtering the wards and individual rooms. The crispy aggressive howl of the early morning's gale unremittingly barked the vacant exterior of the prison's monumental yard, where the rich yields of apocalyptically withered flowers, bushes and tall trees embellished the exterior prospect, vulnerable to the roundish sun's ethereally ever-lasting colonization of the pasty sky and its sacredly gilt skeins stitching every discrete detail of the authentically majestic outdoors' prospect.

Oddly for the esthetically gloomy illustration's ambience the birdsongs ironically contrasted the apocalyptically unholy withered swarm of plants and trees that no longer flourished preternaturally heartwarming as well. The bright contrast between the sole tiny spark of catharsis's melancholically elating ballad and the sable barrens the forsaken prison became a home to the medley of invincibly invisible demons, untouchably stealthy shadows, the bountifully seamless layer of hideous dust and the frigidly unwelcoming loneliness. It was sarcastically aesthetic the jail's dilapidating façade to have its own theme song that was heavenly soothing the shadows and demons strangling the very corners of the jail's sites as well.

Notwithstanding the circumstances, the last night's vast inebrity chased down agitatedly its sinful preys of the luscious liquor in the game room, yet opulence of pearly precious moments wafted into the prisoners' train of thoughts. They could be interpreted as tipsy flirts, unspeakably goofy dances and wobbles to the other part of the game room. The heinously drunken shenanigans and eavesdropping thoughtlessly mindless the music as if a wee party of rich liquor and authentically enticing company the cardinal factors of the last night's thrown party in the site during the High Countess's heavy slumber even though she passed out.

The arcanely enticing flirts Frank and Timothy traded with one another thorough their warm, alcoholic-stained breaths etching their mouths to constrict the construction of every prey of drunkness' pules pitching the stone, coherent walls. Moreover, once the alcohol took an unavoidably serious toll on them and ominously noxious streaming its alcoholic-stained blood surging through their veins and muscles to hydrate their frail skeletons, the male duo traded with one another uniquely authentic moments through the coherently goofy flirts, baits and the hair-risingly intoxicating touchs cradling their fleshy muscles. Broadly huge grins etched their nude pink, chapped mouths. The purely fleet euphoria rabidly rapid danced in their abyss, starkly glassy and wintery lukewarm to leak the frigid flares of the alcohol's sore affliction fleetly snapping their worries and vortex of thoughts' properly versatile function.

Once the middle of the wee hours of the morning after bled into the divinely profound nirvana of the daylight episode's jumpcut to the gloomily sunny climate embracing warmly the Mother nature's children and soldiers, from the flock of formerly intoxicated by the sinfully insatiable alcoholic beverages vastly have fallen asleep hopelessly wherever they could dump their own thumped bodies against the blood-curdlingly icy concrete floor sheltering their tender fleshes. It seemed that the party was no longer ethereally timeless deposited behind the scenes of the site. The straight lines seamlessly stitched Olivia, Frank, Timothy, Robin-Mary and Elias's motionlessly cherub pink lips or rather the sacred pentagram of the intoxication.

Their prisoner outfits were brilliantly clean as if the stains were unremittingly obdurate though their attempts to spotlight their fantastic luster plaguing the sheer fabrics of their attires hugging their frail skeletons. The notoriously unavoidable boundaries of expectancies of incidental woes staging its agitated play apt to tandem its anomaly was a despondently indistinctive whisper of the barren past almost dwindling its crystal brilliance sullying its blotchy apertures. The severe hangover fogged their yet senseless skulls and relentlessly searing detonating its migraine vindictively consuming them.

In the interval, Leslie and Raymond retired out of their manager's office due to the High Countess's spine-chillingly exceeding order to bring the obdurately mutinous inmates in her office to award them with the most deservedly bloodthirsty, brassly heartless retribution for the held hangover party the last night while her beauty comma ultimately commanded sternly its blackout noxiously villainous subjugating her tense muscles and bones. The humdrum spate of dully shrill footsteps drummed against the concrete on their mission to reach their impending destination after retreating from their manager's office and currently on their way to descend the stairway to the first floor. The echoes of the thought-provokingly down-to-earth trance into their moderated their movement speed indicating their quickness per a handful of seconds until Leslie and Raymond no longer populated the second floor and rather they marched towards the game room to venture up without an ado.

The bone-chillingly tranquil illustration of the drifted off asleep inmates and bleating its blatantly ruthless, unpreventable snores inflating faintly their brittle lungs as Elias and Olivia were bluntly motionless lounging their immobile bodies against the cemented floor's, whereas Robin's fleet shelter was the table unlike the British compatriot and the former cop exchanged with each other a whole sofa.

"C'mon, homie!" At the moment, the middle-aged lady ushered to gesticulate with her petite, leather-gloved-clad hand to the brunet escorting her starkly docile shortly after their instantaneous arrival in the site at last, examining in a scrutiny quirkily attentive each discrete detail recently bleeding its translucent cataract of the absolute reality and its grotesquely authenticity. The hoarseness of the Louisianian's warily stealthy mutter severely razor-edged acuminated her humor that was far cry from jovial and every pattern of profound glee fell from her facial attributes. Drifting her half focus absorbed in her close friend, meantime, the platonic duo dawdled up their very presences tiptoeing surreptitiously in the room as if diabolically nocuous rogues snuck up inside the deepest lairs of their recently targeted locale for their stubbornly sinful discoveries with scarcely leaving its mark of their appearance. "We don't have that much time to mess around, because time is money, Ray!"

"I'm trying, Les!" Struggling to buff a pensive purse wedging his naturally pale-pinkish, brim lips whilst his hematite abysses kindled its igneously insecure panic tinting his irises, whilst lulling his dry, berry-coloured tongue to lick thoughtfully his dry, chapped lips at the thought of cuffing the inmates' frail wrists and drag them brashly to their leader's office. "Which one do you think we have to drag?"

"All of them said The High Countess!"

"We are two and they are like five folks,"

"It doesn't matter."A heavy, cold-bloodedly jaded sigh left the dark-haired woman's amenable, tiny nostrils while shooting a nimbly rapid glimpse at the immobile bodies' rich pile and quirking quizzically an eyebrow sternly to formulate her heavy graveness unfeelingly camouflaging Leslie's heavy wrinkles and lower eyelids. "Since the High Countess orders us to take care of five folks, the job should be done at any cost!" The suddenness of the middle-aged gentleman maneuvering to roll his hematite abysses at the bitter yelp of his close friend caught him off guard once Leslie yanked vehemently the hem of his beige trench coat, a boyishly troublesome, prim smirk sprawled bravely upon his pale-pinkish mouth to stifle the stoicism's unsacred disappearance embellishing his parchment complexion.

Raymond Casey Ullman was actually a man in the beginning of his sixties with graciously tanned skin tone exquisitely highlighting his enchantingly individual facial attributes and his heavy wrinkles, besides his dimples perkily inscribing his well-carved, chubby cheeks. His body structure was approximately average with mild beginnings of muscles' moderation of his biceps and legs. Further his height was gauged circa 5'10. Notwithstanding the circumstances, the German compatriot's roots were eminently German and efficiently vast puncturing his firmly profound accent during his formulated utterances shortly after conjugating its swarm of vowels and syllables properly. His rotund silver moons fashionably matched with his perpetually balding eyebrows, his partly bald-clad head with its plastered short mop of hideously greasy dirty aureate strands framing his complexion. Last but not least, during his former life as a mortal his occupation was actually an accountant who was once happily married with a wife and four children until a road accident bestowed him a bonus chance to dwell out of the expansive grand mortal world as his spectral found its new home in the somberly foreign purgatory for a week.

\- _A Few Minutes Later or So_ -

"Ha, ya got yourselves in such a woeful trouble!" All of a sudden, the Bostonian lifted up her rear from the cherry wood bureau and channelized to approach the horde of prisoners whilst the German compatriot and the Louisianian guarded the office outside, due to the fiercely stringent order of their leader. The austere huskiness of her categorical reprimand darkened with its dancing great medley of rueful sarcasm, dim ire and delirious lugubriousness in the pit of her stomach that was sheer barren except a handful of glasses of water couldn't even compensate the exotic breakfast she was anticipating from her hired artistically professional cook to prepare for her.

In a few minutes, the minions of the Bostonian hoisted the jailbirds in the austere office shortly after fulfilling its stringently cold-hearted order and they sunk its graceful meekness to be in charge of the hallway of the compact room that was the true epitome of vacant desert except for the stairway embodying the cusp of the both floors. Two floors. Two completely foreign worlds with their own one of a kind, meaningfully gruesome aesthetic interpreting the luxury Jude was extravagantly treasuring like obtaining freshly prepared dishes by the cook, besides the refreshingly inebriating cocktails she was being served during her breaks and shifts along with her strictly frequent supervision emanating from her hazelish-brown minerals transfixed on the recurring glitter of its violet orb.

The jailbirds that were destined to do any kind of a remarkably tiresome task or chore according to their daily routine formatted by their director coveted more than anything once to share one night in a sufficiently decent furnished and adequately maintained bedroom with angelically stainless bed sheets that were far cry from extravagantly patchy, besides to often spend every morning, noon and evening in masticating humble dishes. The miserable poverty their destiny graced them ethereally remorseless was far cry from seventh heaven's landscape except for the director of their demonical retribution to be imprisoned somewhere who is running a demolished facility with an iron fist.

The monstrously infernal fury surged through the former licentious jazz nightclub singer's very veins and hypodermically sweltering heat infectiously building its unpreventable blush to mop her forehead with generous layer of crystalline perspiration. The satanically preternatural domination that was a natural personality trait potently unceasing developing the former promiscuous nightclub singer's ultimate persona pulsated into her petite-frame. She couldn't bear any longer every nervously ticking second of its pearly precious time to eavesdrop its delusional ode of the sugarcoated lies and exaggerations that certain prisoners got away with an ease, besides plummeting down the crude harshness of their retribution due to their fantastic slyness.

In the interim, Robin-Mary, Olivia and Timothy's parchment, swan expanses were recently buckled by the lunettes' roundish amply sizable gap offering them the cusp of the spine-chillingly hard-boiling demise and the supernally unique life even though it was woefully ironic a spectral's life to dwell out of its gruesomely immortal figure. Eerie lines adorned the blonde along with the horde of prisoners' façades. Frank and Elias didn't have other choice with exception contemplating through the despondently emotionless dominos unmasking the hangover's remnant of temporal ecstasy it bestowed every individual that had haughtily participated in the miniature party's formation the night before.

Lifelessness glamorously relevant shimmer waltzed in the twins of gemstones landed on the former pious woman of the cloth's anatomy, surveying her in a scrutiny and admiring her crispy bone structure fleshy and fabric's blended layer to embrace their eyesight coupled with her slyly prim, broadly serpentine smirk furiously buffing her royal vermillion brim oral slit. Folding her arms across her chest, the Bostonian managed to waltz nonchalantly cocksure the site as the dozens of elaborated footsteps timidly drummed against the carpeted floor, whereas her honey brown gemstones speared the recent preys of the hangover and headstrongly investigating the shenanigans they have formulated to be served at last.

The megawatt tension the very walls of the site witnessed asphyxiated the self-esteem of each jailbird, bearing a semblance of the surreptitious burglary of supernally gilded hearts as if their divinely gigantic wings grew and flipped agitatedly to flee to their dream destination eventually. Even if the British compatriot, the Afro-American, the former police officer, Elias and Robin-Mary could be gauged as five and outnumbering the High Countess, yet the rawly flinty authority that was so untouchable, so austere and so invincible against its wry riots.

"What are you waiting for with those replies that take even seconds to grant me a rational explanation to the remnants of the mess ya did the night before?" Wolfy, uninviting howl quivered the former devotional sister of the church's bottom plump lip articulating the genuine notion of her darker side that was eventually confronting its victims of her wrath and vermillion authority. The jailbirds resiliently inward prayed neither of them to confront their gory punishment at all even though they could solely hope for false hopes that certain scale of their inner voices high-pitchedly blatant, recklessly echoed like ghost whispers of the unimpressively unpeaceful former mortals' souls wandering low-spiritedly their final homes.

"That is quite undeserved, madam!" Soar thickness vindictively barbaric seethed the widower's Adam apple, whereas his big, rotund lapis lazuli gems registered to prong Jude, majestically luminous with untouchable fury amalgamating with its fiery resentment. The inexorably heavy heart pulses synced the lethally dull thumps into their eardrums at the low-spiritedly amplified ballad of the adrenalines' chant whizzing their bones and muscles hypodermically sweltering. "Nobody got hurt just after such an awesome hangover!"

"Yet it doesn't give ya the right to throw a party and getting drunk as skunks!" Fashioning into balled fists her elvish, femininely alabaster hands whilst her sacredly strong, deft fingers bashfully balled her sleeves cuffs promptly, reproducing the impulsively antagonistic wrath apt to trance in her body language and manners lastly. "And most of all, you haven't even informed in first place. How shameless of ya!"

"Even if we did such an atrocity without informing you, at least nobody deserves such a cruel punishment just for the lacking information wandering in your office!" Meantime, the redhead's naturally roseate, chapped mouth foamed its sharp retaliation aimed to the blonde, whose strawberry-coloured, wet tongue manipulated to lull out of her vermillion lips and lick greedily her upper and lower lip afterwards. Dawdling her monstrously piercing glare at the flock of inmates, the blonde's blood boiled accompanying diligently its vividly violent throb into her ribcage as if the ethereally endless time has halted its gamely vehement rivulets' flows. "Just make the difference,"

"I won't make any differences and it's my property, my rules, Miss Benson!" Cutting her off curtly through the thin veil of amplifying strong-willed spleen venomously serpentine sullying the former holy nun's northern lilt puncturing her iron supremacy and retreating back to her bureau to retrieve her lacquered thick whip until her swift return was accomplished in a long stride of footsteps ghosting the floor. "I wish I could whip yar naked bums for your shameless brashness against my system and my rules," A heavy snort coursed through her dainty nose, whereas readjusting her petite hand's spidery fingerless gloved-clad fingers crook circa the whip's handle without averting her glare. "Even though yar pretty luck somebody isn't inserting things in your buttholes and yar being compromised for that one."

"C'mon, madam! Since you're know-it-all, we shall see what do you exactly the difference!"

"Don't challenge me, Elias! No wonder why you and Timothy aren't that cocksure to be trapped under the guillotine's lunettes!" In a long minute of self-conscious oscillation between examining in a scrutiny her weapon of choice for the sorely gory retribution and tightening its shamelessly brass grasp, consequently the Bostonian gruffly cleared her throat with the palm of her only free hand and maintaining unspeakably morbid meager distance with the trapped trio. "I have had enough from all of ya!"

The brash neutrality of the former possessed doctor simmered uneasily in the pit of his stomach and struggling to swig obdurately its bittersweet lump tormenting his fleshy throat muscles. Even though he wasn't a keen enthusiast of his once rara avis's unimaginably massive crudeness plaguing every inmate, yet even if he rebelled all alone against her celestially sacred supremacy it would equate to a fatal feud. What he witnessed actually was the genuine archetype of the richly abstract medley of betrayal, resentment and choler betrayed its utter tranquility. He couldn't even stop her at all.

She was even embodying an immortally divine demigod's subtle cloak wavering restlessly hysteric to leak her heroic glory and power God graced her shortly after her arrival in the purgatory, due to the inevitably vast blizzard of woes she's being through in her past life when she was once a mortal like every one of a kind with their own mission. Personal Jesus was recurringly shrill thumping its victims' inner voices of recited in mumble somber prayers seeking its supernaturally hallowed freedom from what they the least deserved even for the pettiest mistake. Anguished bewails yelped the trio as soon as the series of smacks of whips across their symmetric buttocks rendered them to forge its unpredictable flinches.

**Author's Final Note: I know it's the 5th chapter and it's a special anniversary to mark its beginning of the sequel, nevertheless, what are your actual thoughts on the whole story up to now and do you really enjoy it? Do you like the eerie vibes the purgatory rewards as well? **

** I'm genuinely apologizing for the late updates and being such a dummy even though it's tough to keep freshly updated 5 projects especially 3 ongoing books! I hope you liked and enjoyed this chapter! 3333**


	6. I Don't Know

**Author's Note: I Don't Know by Nick Hakim is actually the inspiration for this chapter! Happy reading everybody! **

\- _Dream_ -

_Inebriating sweet dreams. Sweetening the very tongue tip of the despondently sleepy child to savor the cloying flavor of the wild dreams pelting down eagerly its emphatically imaginative blizzard of thoughts. Contracted shut eyelids solemnly dedicated to the reverie realm like a mother's mellifluent lullaby breezing softly her little sweet ray of sunshine, enticingly emboldening it to drift off asleep sooner than later. Stitching deftly the thinly seamless fabric of the abstractly wild dreams embroidering the hurricane of thoughts' vigorous reproduction and their vividly explicit dream scenarios tinting their visual eyesight. It was one of the most heartwarmingly comfy realms to feel like home, yet senselessly treasuring pearly every ounce of the beauty coma and its inexorable remnants. _

_In the meantime, the British compatriot portioned his night with the stranger man he bumped in the bar just almost an hour ago, besides exchanging opulence of blunt shenanigans trancing their ineludibly tipsy slurps twitching their nude lips. Oddly, Timothy's unconditional comfort warmly settled in the pit of his stomach and frequently ruthless grooved in the company of the cryptic man whom he subconsciously awarded him with modicum of his uniquely divine, untouchable trust to not populate the bar any longer. In front of the other nobodies' gruesomely inquisitive optics examining the panorama in a piercing scrutiny like bloodthirstily ravenous eagles. In front of the nobodies' broadly prim, deftly ravenous smirks wearing a thousand patterns of derision, aloofness and childlike inquisitiveness sprawling across their mildly damp-stained oral slits. The pungent reek of human flesh, sweat, lethally intoxicating liquor and tobacco no longer wafted in their amenable noses. The rich medley of jovially blatant drunken shenanigans, mere chats and the music's lullaby aggressively howling to sidetrack them with the foggy racket._

_The mildly younger man, who absorbed his sharply resplendent accent to keep in touch with the former devotional member of the church, was actually in his early thirties. First and foremost, the cryptic character's body structure was seamlessly average with well-sculptured muscles punctured underneath his pair of dark denim jeans and chiffon lily-white shirt as its hideously stubborn buttons concealed his thickly dark chest-hair's wire except for the only one button that was left undone. He stood 5'11 solely, which crudely realistic portrayed him as a tad shorter with approximately inch than the British compatriot. His neatly combed lion mane of lavish golden strands curtaining his ghostly pale, freshly young-looking façade, and cascading his broadly muscly shoulders. In addition to his young-looking physique, his huge roundish lapis lazuli abysses wore a thousand patterns of stark enigma and monstrous kindheartedness, eerily controversial commingling together to craft the enigmatically majestic canvas. His masculinely charming facial attributes accented his outstanding light eyebrows exquisitely matching his fashionably cordate lips and nose. Last but not least, his Swedish roots amalgamated his birth town of Kossuth, Iowa, intercrossed exquisitely his enticing abysmal lilt bonded with his ancestors' physical characteristics. _

_His identity was the shadow of the fallen angel, or rather, the devil with multiple personalities that can buff his humor and attitude anytime with the gruesomely sable brush painting his tall figure in the darkest hues of the cryptic paradox. It could show his true colours sooner or later. Or eventually in a New York minute. Nobody was familiar with him except Matthew Parker, who could play the role of an antagonist and protagonist in his own story of his life as a daredevil one of a kind. _

_Matthew Parker's flat wasn't much expansive at all, nor problematically miniature as it could be a home sweet home to only one inhabitant. Just a mere home that could deposit a handful of people or a nuclear family as well. _

_Meantime, the male duo sat on the dining table and scarcely having any intentions to lift their rears from the peeling off cherry wood chairs, whereas they crooked their masculinely potent, nimble fingers circa their scotch glasses of axinite sinfully insatiable liquor, partly engulfing the entity's surface. Whiskey-stained lips curved into dimly prim, weak smiles fiercely relentless etching their oral slits to indicate their powerfully far-fetched earnestness, shimmering in the corner of their abysses. _

_The dully last quarter agate moon had already scrambled on the ethereally eternal horizon of its nocturnal starless panorama. The extraordinarily hedonistic palish gleam dimly impaled every stranger's peripheral chasm once their bewitched ogle pierced the starless nocturnal sky's authentically luxurious, yet ordinary landscape._

_Perhaps it was approximately ten o'clock tonight. The unnerving tick of the progressing time was enveloped in rogue's subtlety. _

_"__How do you even cope with the alcohol, despite the fact that you used to be a priest," The suddenness of the Swedish compatriot's blatantly bleated belch pitching the very walls of the kitchen meagerly caught off guard the former pious man of the cloth, whilst readjusting his pristinely delicate, slim fingers dancing circa the scotch glass of the scrumptiously lukewarm liquor, and eventually fixating his warm coffee brown chasms on the blond. An incredulously frigid odium stung the older gentleman's appealing facial attributes at the barbarically blatant belch, due to the fact, he couldn't put a finger on the sympathetic people that absorbed him with the fierily sophisticated medley of sorely flagrant scurrility, godless mysticism and offbeat goodwill of the Swedish compatriot's mental anatomy. On top of that, the former aspiring Monsignor isn't a keen fan of certain people not stifling their bluntly reckless, mindless eructation unless it was a baby that hasn't even descended his toddlerhood or a really close friend, or relative of his."Tim?"_

_"__I'm not drinking much and it is just rarely, you know, Matt." Timothy's lazily fleet, benevolently sympathetic smile dawdled to fall from his alabaster façade, refraining from twisting his mouth in a crude denunciation about his spontaneously reckless eructation. Now, the alcohol gravely took a toll on the duo without shadow of a doubt. The indubitably booziness clouded Timothy and Matthew's depths, accompanying the luminous glossiness tangoing perkily upon their unearthly timeless jet-black pupils."It reminded me how I drank a tad wine on the Fridays as usually." Thereafter, the older man managed to lift up the entity and wrap his naturally pale-pinkish, deliciously plumpish lips around the rim of the glass to swig a handful of meekly tiny sips scorching his strawberry-coloured tongue. The mild contrast between the almost emptied scotch glass of the Iowanian and the British compatriot's partly full spoke volumes about the versatile pace they were perpetually advancing to manipulate. "It was just part of the dinner menu as I shared it with somebody, whom I seriously deem as my big cheese."_

_"__Good for you, Tim!" Bobbing incessantly subconscious his head in solemn agreement even when it was the least necessary, consequently the Iowanian maneuvered the palm of his mammoth, marbled hand to swat mischievously faint, bearing a semblance as if one of his best of friends rewarded him with a pat for his outspoken confession. "I bet it is a wee hypocritical the priests and the nuns to claim that they don't even dare to take a meek sip from an alcoholic beverage once in awhile." Then the former ambitious Monsignor's cinnamon brown big, rotund moons scanned the kitchen subconsciously, yet the fogginess of the inevitably invincible alcohol's apocalyptically voracious weapon dumping its aftermaths' raw wounds blotching surreptitiously their eyesight and their language like an antagonistically rich beehive of nail-biting bullets._

_"__You are actually right!" The haphazardness of Timothy's baby-pinkish, plumpish lips rippling in the scornfully wry chuckle following the fluent rhythm of the fair agreement overwhelmed the nocturnally uneven doldrum, settling conveniently in the blond's apartment, and that was solely disturbed by the platonic pairing's drunkenly passionate colloquy they have profoundly built through the elapsing time. "But it is not right to drink a bit too much. I mean out of the boundaries and ending up like three sheets to the wind." Maintaining to stabilize the adequate eye contact, meantime, the blond channelized his only free hand's long slim fingers to joyously flip a fistful of his extravagantly greasy gilded locks. The nimbly ailing zephyr of the hair flip refreshingly dim fanned the younger gentleman's fleshy layer of his skull._

_"__Exactly! How is the bourbon?"_

_"__It's pretty good."_

_"__Think twice!" Suddenly, Matthew maneuvered to lull his wet, strawberry-coloured tongue to lick gamely greedy his upper and lower sticky bourbon-stained lips, whilst his tongue crafted the cutthroatly infernal, intense caution and lugging up his scotch glass to tippling in a handful of giant sips the rest of the remaining alcoholic beverage."Your facial expression is like a book with widely opened pages for me even if I'm tipsy." The painful skepticism inscribed the very facial features and lower eyelids of the Iowanian, whilst his eyelids' tenderly fleshy muscles struggled to blink reluctantly at Timothy's revelation, tingling its exceeding alarming tones which arrantly tinted the cusp of the sugar-coated exaggeration and the bare truth. Notwithstanding the circumstances, the Iowanian's exceedingly uncommon inwardness of his accent has tinged his utterances and altering the British compatriot's coziness in his company megawatt intensifying on a preternaturally fiendish level._

_"__There is no lie." Shortly after whimpering the mutter under his breath that was oddly distinctive for the Swedish compatriot, thus the older gentleman managed to take a modest sip of his glass._

_"__For which time I am going to listen to the same old lie?" All of a sudden, the former religious clergyman registered to choke on his final sip before the unhallowed apogee's peak, whereas loosening the grip around the entity and nestling his virginally delicate, marbled fingers circa his Adam apple, struggling to seethe the heinously headstrong thickness encumbering his throat muscles to rebel against the inevitably detrimental passivity. The undeniably bone-chilling timbre punctured the Swedish compatriot's enquiry that slenderly caught off guard his guest as the bitter lump sinisterly bashful postponed to gush down his liver. "It didn't age well." The last thing before the eventual blackout of the former holy priest was contemplating through the absolute reality's abstractly raw prospect of the ordinarily furnished kitchen coupled with Matthew's pools of abysmally spine-chilling ocean blue, unceasingly unremitting darkening its healthily natural nuances. The atypical chilly climate pebbled the platonic pairing's nipples even though their hardness was so relevant, so garish and so vulnerable beneath the fabric that enough guarded to expose their absolute reality's retribution. "The poor Timmy!" In the interim, the Swedish compatriot manifested to heft his rear from his peeled cherry wood chair and tiptoed to the unconscious former member of the clergy, whose arcanely tense muscles didn't reciprocate to any kind of a motion or the gentlest touch emanating the host, himself. "You may have lost your way."_

\- _End of Dream_ -

\- _Back to Reality_ -

\- _Later that Day_ -

"**C'mon, Tim!**" The haphazardness of the Afro-American's elvish, chocolate hands villainously morbid clawed the British compatriot's broadly muscular shoulders to snap him out of his catnap, whereas the infantry of childlike prying jewels skittered urgently swift to the landscape of their inmate's undeniably obdurate attempts to dwell Timothy out of the reverie realm, and drowning sweetly in the unworldly abyssal gracing him with dim drool of his faintly indistinctive snores swelling his frail lungs. "**Wake up!**" As soon as Timothy came to his senses and pinching widely opened his huge, roundish bijous to embrace the illustration of the prisoners occupying the dilapidating godforsaken opera's interior, besides anticipating for the show's saga, the British compatriot's baby-pinkish, chapped lips crumpled in the rueful gasp, blowing a fatalistically high-pitched kiss to the site's lethal doldrum and the walls witnessing the ode of the uninvited guests.

Once the dull daily episode's anomaly tranced into the inescapable nocturnal exploit staidly shaded the arrantly starless sky, consequently the reassuringly velvety birdsongs vanished in the thin air and replaced with the fierily perfervid crickets' joyful warbles. The relentlessly clear-cut big, round adamant moon brooding aimlessly and pearly cherishing the graceful solitude, sensing certain quantity of the audience's fixated jewels on the roundish satellite and admiring its uncannily extraordinary prospect, offering the unmitigated tranquility.

A quarter an hour bled in a few hours' agitated anticipation for the tonight show's start. The icily tedium silence asphyxiated the dilapidating cracked grizzly walls of the opera house, which was once engulfing the visitants with the scintillatingly brilliant dazzle of the luxurious interior's discreet details until a few centuries later the gradual trance in the apocalyptically unspeakable disruption, escorting modestly the bountifully luminous layer of dust complimenting the royal armchairs, the wooden rostrum and the gigantically crimson satin curtains framing the void space. It once reminded of the magnificently sonorous opera house that wreathed in its cozily promising, invitingly warm hug the visitants to spend a handful of hours boring their fairly razor-edged gemstones on the rostrum and the frequency of the singers and actors performing their own roles. Now, it was the new abode to the invisibly horrifying shadows, demons and ghosts of the occasional victims' final destination as they couldn't know it was any longer if they will flee the demolished façade alive, besides dearly awed in the performances' authentic aesthetics.

Frank, Olivia, Robin-Mary, Elias and Timothy have conquered their own individual seats unlike their leader, who had disappeared in the dressing room of the artists. Yet, their vocal tissues could reproduce solely ferociously impulsive noises at the top of their lungs and throats with exception of conjugating a pretty straightforward utterance, instead of using the miserable sheets of papers and pens to dabble down their true emotions, sentiments and confessions eventually.

First and foremost, the Bostonian has decided for today, due to the fresher's initial appearance in the past few days, consequently to attend the nigh opera and enforce the jailbirds to watch the phenomenally thought-provoking performances as she isn't part of the audience at all. The dim illumination in the site merrily flickered monotonously continual and the unshakably invincible pitch-black darkness dueled with the artificially profuse aureate light. Furthermore, the otherworldly icy climate blew an invincible kiss to ripple the uninvited guests with gloriously inescapable huddle of horripilation onto their overall legs and arms.

"**Holy crap, Oli! Be careful with the kiddo! He just woke up.**" Seconds before the eerily foreign echo of the flock of diligently repetitive footsteps whispered against the podium, thereafter, the widower channelized his deft fingers dangled around his fountain pen to jot down his recent revelation emanating from the plenteous fuel of his blizzard of thoughts at the dynamic prospect. The altruistic concern vastly sojourned high-strungly glamorous luminescence, in fact, he wasn't a vehement enthusiast of witnessing how his former rival was being forcefully writhed, snapping him curtly out of his unnatural reverie and its dear soldiers guarding his train of thoughts.

"**Blame it on Oli, Frank! I bet Tim had a spectacular catnap.**" Meantime, Elias manipulated his masculinely meaty, nimble fingers to scribble clumsily, whilst darting his brutally honest onyx minerals launched a fleet glimpse at the former aspiring Monsignor and the redhead as he knitted his masculinely dark, thick eyebrows to the bridge of his nose. The hoarseness of Elias's gutturally straightforward, demonical snicker teased his well-carved and berry-coloured, dry tongue eventually. Demonically forgetful to the series of elaborated footsteps piercing the platform and hair-raisingly unimaginable suffocating the hush, thereafter, the large frame of the emcee towering the peripheral gazes of the meager mass of audience.

"**We can only presume. Furthermore, he's tremendously lucky the High Countess isn't nearby at all, you know! She will be the core of another bland din as it always happens even for such petty things like falling asleep like a tired dog.**" Seconds before shifting their ultimately utmost attention to the host, whose very presence enveloped in an irrevocable limbo, thus the redhead's pads of her fingers daubed warily to scribble on the sheet of paper her recent response. Notwithstanding the circumstances, the brunette was the sole jailbird who wasn't paying any heed to her allies' prattles as their communication's adequate maintenance was established in blanks.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to this evening's presentation." Suddenly, the troop of vowels and syllables' stubbornly reckless duel to articulate the Japanese compatriot's brief introduction to the tonight's show in the opera house, whilst his pale-pinkish, starkly glossy lips effortlessly forceful augmented the hugely beaming grin embellishing his parchment face and faintly creasing his lower eyelids bonding his light-heavy wrinkles. Meanwhile, his pitch-black moons darted to the modest horde of prisoners he could candidly reckon them as his little audience. His sable moons kindled its deliriously indomitable flares of marvelous charisma and fabulous magnetism tinting his gawk, during his declaim. "Tonight, things are not what they seem, for tonight, your eyes may not be trusted. Take for instance this elderly, yet enigmatically charismatic woman, waiting for her lover to be the true knight in the shining armor. Surely there is nothing to fear from this sweet, pretty charismatic elderly lady." Muffling the blatantly mewled dry cough with the palm of his mammoth, parchment hand, therefore the host's Adam apple struggled to forge its nirvanic catharsis of the soar thickness encumbering his tender throat muscles hypodermically. Eerie flat lines lazily abraded the horde of jailbirds' pink mouths, while honing their ears to eavesdrop attentively every segment of the monologue. 'But don't let me pull the wool over your eyes. See for yourself what lies beneath those covers. And now on the show!" Moments before retiring back to the other side of the cabaret, the suddenness of the significantly dexterous manipulation of the flickering lights beguiling to switch off the lights in a jiffy, following the sharp accent of the projects' orbit, pale enough to detect the once shadow figure of the preternatural appearance of the blonde sitting on the satin crimson piano stool.

The infernally bewitching silhouette's gigantic form embroidered on the monumentally lavish curtains transcended the real epitome of the horror or rather the phantom of the opera, whose show was currently only in the spectral's bare hands. Yet, the phantom of the opera's silhouette was arrantly emulating to a power-hungrily domineering woman, whose leadership once was gloving her infernally sprightly hands, subsequently the saga of the iron fist was just the fresh dawn.

The ineludibly gracious fragrance of feminine perfume heinously baneful tainted unremittingly the partly illuminated site.

The cryptic older lady was no longer foreign to the palish spotlight and the eager ocean of abysses pronging the phenomenally gruesome, yet thought-provoking vista. During Frank, Elias, the brunette and the ginger's utter focus darted to the performance's prequel, in the meantime, the former ambitious Monsignor's painful incredulity twisted across his youthfully handsome facial features and parting his naturally nude pink, deliciously plumpish lips in a wide O at the vista of the artist he has anticipated agitatedly to step on the cabaret tonight the least.

Hopefully that wasn't midst his chaotically hysterical dreams' surrealistic compounds brewing and cooking inside his forest of thoughts.

✞ **What are your thoughts on Timothy's dream? **✞

✞ **What are your true impressions on the cliffhanger? **✞

✞ **I hope you candidly liked and enjoyed the chapter as well. If you really liked and enjoyed it, don't forget to pour your genuine impressions on the chapter as a feedback! Don't be shy! **✞


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